


Through the Ocean Glass

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-27 19:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: A fight at the pier puts Duncan in the drink. When he comes up again, it isn't his world anymore. He's stuck in another universe and trying to make sense of all the differences, and trying to not be too heartsick that he is separated from Methos. But this universe's Adam and Joe might need him even more than the world he's left behind.





	Through the Ocean Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2004 for a challenge, hence the disparity in technology. 
> 
> There's a gorgeous companion piece that beeej wrote called "Mirror, Mirror" that can be found here: http://hl-remix.livejournal.com/22712.html  
> Please remember to drop her some love if you read it. And it makes way more sense if you read it after reading this one, but it is lovely all on its own.
> 
> Warnings: tv-series level of violence, and sort-of major character death but it gets complicated

The fight was not going well. Not especially well.

Duncan dodged an attack, feinted right, and made a tactical retreat to the other side of the dock-house. Hidden in the shadows, he had a moment to catch his breath while his opponent--a man that had identified himself as Jack Fitch--squinted warily into the darkness, a sneer plastered across his face that seemed all the more sinister for the flash of green and red reflections from buoy-lights that bounced on the ocean top. He was smallish, although Duncan knew that size was a deceiver. Fitch was compact, and just by the cords of his neck, and the ropes of tendons visible on his wrists, there was ample evidence that he was stronger than his size belied.

The fighting had commenced about twenty minutes earlier. Duncan had been leaving the dock area, having secured his newly acquired small sailboat for the week, and had had the misfortune to run across the path of the agitated Immortal. The Challenge had been almost immediate, tersely stated, and quickly started. Fitch had been nearly jumping with frenetic energy already, and at the first strike of sword against sword, he became even more so, and the fight had escalated quickly to a feverous pitch. Fitch's technique was strictly propelled, his flourishes nasty, his attacks uncommon and unusual. Worst of all, he was fast. Each strike seemed a flash of energy roiling out. It didn't matter that there was no great strength behind the movement, the blade was sharp enough to cut stone, and Duncan spent precious minutes figuring out how to defend himself. Methos would have harsh words for him if--when, he truly hoped--he returned and recounted this fight. 

"Come on," Fitch now taunted. "Come on out and let's finish this." Fitch's eyes never seemed to blink. Glassy, they stared straight into the inky blackness. Fitch kept moving slowly. "Come on. Come on." 

Duncan saw his opportunity and took it. From out of the shadows he lunged. Fitch had passed him just enough to allow for an attack to the weaker, more guarded side, and Duncan pressed towards that. But again, that damned quickness was released, and Fitch caught the attack with his own blade, the screech of steel on steel ringing in ear-splitting disaccord across the water. With foul breath, and even fouler language, Fitch yelled as Duncan's blade--not entirely deflected--skewered him through his gut. 

"Yes, let's finish this," Duncan said, pushing his weapon home.

Fitch gasped, arms flailing about him, searching for something, anything, and Duncan realized too late that he'd found purchase, as a heavy metal-ness crashed down upon the side of his head. Duncan instinctively kept grasp of his katana even as the stars exploded into night in his brain. But he could not keep a grasp on his balance or his consciousness, and he tumbled away and down from his enemy, hitting the ever present slime of seaweed that coated the brackish sludge that could barely still be called water. In the lee of the old dock-gate, and near-eroded and wholly unused concrete pier, Duncan fell through the eternal night that was the ocean, and his last taste was of salt.

  
~~~~~  


He gasped in air.

Painfully, Duncan came alive again. The dappled sun was bright against his eyes, and he felt dried out, as if he'd been pickled like an egg. Trying to catch his bearings, he clutched at the nearest object, a rough hewn log enveloped in a green slime. Duncan stared at the thing until he realized where he was--under a wooden dock, in the water. He kicked and found no bottom, but something soft that wasn't vegetation brushed against his leg. Still half confused by his revival, he gazed down into the cloudy water, and lost his bearings again altogether.

Duncan clutched at the dock support with both hands, and closed his eyes. He had not seen what he had seen. He had not seen what he had seen. It was a trick of the light. The water was dirty. He'd imagined it. 

He looked again, but it didn't make anything better.

Down towards the bottom, face placid in death, was a man. Heavy chains were wrapped around his limbs, his hair fanned out around him, barely moving as the current was almost non-existent in this protected place. He was too far away to touch without diving beneath the water, but Duncan could see his face clearly enough, and it was, after all, an easy face to recognize. It was his own.

"Dear Mother," he invoked. Gathering his courage, he took a deep breath, and dived down. He couldn't see well under the water, and every movement he made caused the sand to kick up into miniature storms. He touched the man's arm, his shoulder, his neck--still solidly attached between head and torso--and his face. Even under water, Duncan could feel the warmth still in the man's skin. Not dead by much, he decided and began to heave the body towards shore. 

It was slow going, the chains were manacled to the man's waist, wrists, and ankles, so Duncan changed course and dragged him into the shallow area still under the dock. Gently he lifted the man's head up until it was above water, and he waited. Sitting in the mud and muck, he groaned. "You're going to explain this to me, I hope," Duncan told his doppelganger. "When you wake up."

Nothing happened.

After a very long while, Duncan closed his eyes, and let the body slide away from him. Tired and sore, he then climbed out of the water and onto land. He was covered in unknown material, stinking of rotted fish and worse. He eyed the dock area. No one was around yet. A few hardy souls were far off, working on their ships, but no one was paying any attention to him. Cautiously, he walked out onto the crumbling pier over where he had revived. He stared down into the water, his memory fuzzy about whether he had or hadn't-- Ah! There. He slid into the water and retrieved his katana, relieved that while his sanity might have vanished, at least his sword had not. The dip removed a good amount of crud and when he crawled back onto the pier, dislodging a few chunks rotted wood in the process, he smelled more of salt and sea than fish.

Making sure that he drew as little attention as possible, he moved to the parking lot, and discovered that his car was missing. Fighting the feeling of despair that threatened to wash over him at this last straw, he started walking. On the bright side of things, Joe's was a lot closer than home, so he could go there first and get a drink. Then he could figure out exactly how mad he'd gone.

By the time he'd walked to Joe's, he'd mostly dried out, which had not helped the smell. Instead of a raw, wet stench, he now exuded a dry, permeating odor that lingered. He wasn't sure it was much of an improvement. The walk had been good for another thing. In addition to the dubious drying-time it had afforded, Duncan had been able to think. 

The last thing he remembered was fighting with Fitch. It had been a dirty, rough fight at the end of the day, and Duncan had finally gotten Fitch's measure, he'd thought, and then…. He remembered hitting the water and going under, the pressure crushing him from the inside out. He'd drowned. He'd been dead for a while, judging by the sun's presence in the sky. Where had Fitch gone? Duncan surreptitiously patted his katana, hidden at his side. A second fight would not go the same way as the first, that was for sure. He'd come back in the water, and he'd found…himself. Dead. And he hadn't revived. 

He wondered how long it would be until the body was discovered. Duncan sped up his steps. He needed to find Methos and let him know he was fine. No one needed to hear their lover was dead, especially if he wasn't really.

Joe's was closed when he arrived, but the door was unlocked. Duncan entered the bar, and gratefully discovered that Joe was behind the bar, wiping up, and grinning.

"Hey, stranger," Joe greeted. "Drink?"

"Hello, Joe." Duncan dropped onto a bar stool, suddenly relieved and exhausted. "Yeah. Beer. Anything."

Joe poured him a draft and set it down. "Whew." He waved a hand under his nose. "You stink. What's that? Eau d'Refuse?"

"Har har, Joe. I was Challenged. Some guy named Fitch. Ever hear of him?"

Joe looked suddenly worried, the good humor draining from his face. "Fitch? No. Never. He picked a fight with you?" Joe's eyes narrowed. "You think he's one of the goon-squad?" 

"Goon-squad?" Duncan took a long drink of the beer, and finally started to feel a little better. At least, he thought, if Joe didn't know about the Challenge, then Methos wouldn't have known about it either. Which meant that although he'd been missing for a night, Methos hadn't thought the worst. "What's this about a goon-squad? No, he was just a single Immortal."

Joe stared at him, a hard frown on his face. 

"Joe?" Duncan put down his beer.

"Are you feeling ok?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You're acting…funny." Joe's frown deepened. 

"It's nothing a shower and some clean clothes won't fix." Duncan took another swig of beer, relishing the taste. After swallowing sea water, it was damn near ambrosia. In his peripheral vision, he could see Joe come around the end of the bar and approach him. A little warning feeling shivered through him, and he moved off the bar stool, still holding the glass of beer. "Joe--" He stared.

"Listen, Mac--" 

The glass of beer slipped from Duncan's nerveless fingers, shattering on the ground.

"Shit." Joe crouched down and began to pick up the larger pieces of glass. "Butterfingers, much, Mac?" He looked up. "Mac?"

Duncan took a step back. "You…your legs." 

"Yeah, so?" The genuine confusion on Joe's face made Duncan's blood freeze. He'd rationalized the doppelganger. This…this was utter madness. "Hey, hey." Joe dropped the glass and stood up, catching Duncan's arm and helping to ease him down on a stool. "You took a little harder knock to the head than you thought, huh?" 

Duncan shook his head. "No, Joe. No. I--" 

"Hey, Joe." The familiar voice behind him eased the tightness and Duncan smiled, suddenly happy. Everything would work out. He'd done strange before and seen the other side, and if Methos was here then--

Duncan blinked and realized that Methos had come to stand next to him, was grinning at Joe. "Hey. Did my mail arrive yet?"

"Behind the bar," Joe told him, one hand still a comforting weight on Duncan's arm.

"How'd you do that?" Duncan demanded.

Methos blinked that slow, languorous, innocent blink of his. "Do what?" He gave a little smile, suddenly wary. "I've seen you around. You're Joe's friend, right? Mac, isn't it?" He glanced to Joe, whose face only reflected a low level of concern and confusion.

"I'm _your_ friend!" Duncan retorted. "Stop playing around, Methos. And tell me how the hell you did that!"

Methos took a step backwards, one empty hand going up in front. "Listen, I didn't do anything." He pointed behind the bar. "I just came for my mail." 

Angry, Duncan stood up, shaking off Joe's arm with a practiced move, and decided he'd shake the truth out of his devious, games-playing lover. He wasn't in the mood for games. Except--

Methos was stumbling backwards, away from him, worry changing to calculated fear in his eyes. He was practically falling backwards, frantically bringing up the business end of a cane with one hand and grasping the edge of the bar with the other while dragging one leg along with him. Trying to fend off Duncan's wrath.

"You're hurt," Duncan said, the anger dissipating to helium-like wonderment. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real. No buzz. And even Methos wouldn't have played at not knowing him after he'd been missing for a night. Or faked a crippling injury. Duncan's attention swiveled back to Joe. Or righted a severe injury. "I'm sorry," Duncan whispered. "Sorry. I…I thought you were someone else." He sank back down on the stool, and this time Joe's hand clamped down on him like a vise. 

Methos--or at least the man that appeared to look like him--breathed a sigh of relief. He righted himself, safely distanced at the end of the bar, and grabbed his bundle of letters. "Give a guy a heart attack, why don't you." He glanced to Joe, and the look was a mixture of concern and assessment. "See you around?"

"Tomorrow, Adam." Joe nodded.

Duncan watched as Adam warily stomped forward with his cane and good leg, then swiveled his hips just enough to swing the other leg forward--an almost useless leg, Duncan thought, and then noticed another thing. The hand gripping the cane was shaped like talons, the fingers stiff and unflexing, as if frozen in position. The same side as his crippled leg, and Duncan wondered how it had happened. 

When the door finally swung closed, Joe released his grip. "I think you'd better go home, Mac. Whatever happened, you need a shower, some food, and a good long rest. You aren't yourself, and you know it."

Duncan laughed miserably. "Oh, I am myself, Joe. It's everyone else that isn't." 

"You're talking crazy, you know that?"

Duncan stared down at the floor, his shoes now additionally sticky with the residue of spilt beer. "Joe, what's an Immortal?"

"What's a what?"

He looked Joe in the face, straight on. "What's a Challenge? What's the Game?" he demanded.

"Game? What kind of game?" Joe slapped the top of the bar. "Stop it, Mac. Damn it, just stop!"

Duncan just smiled at him. Then he bent down, grabbed a piece of glass and closed his hand over it.

"Shit!" Joe leapt forward. "Let go, you crazy bastard!" He pried at Duncan's hand, which easily opened for him. He plucked the glass out and flung it away. "Shit. What kind of idiot stunt was that? You think I didn't already know you'd gone around the bend a bit?" He studied the hand. "We'll have to wash it in the sink. You probably will need stitches, you know that? Stupidest thing I--" Joe stopped, mouth open, and stared.

Duncan watched as the healing force came, as it always had for nearly four hundred years, and sealed up his wounds, leaving nothing behind but unmarred skin, and a little spilt blood.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Joe whispered. "What the hell just happened?"

"I'm Immortal, Joe. I was born in the Highlands of Scotland over four hundred years ago and I can not die."

Joe stared at him, then blinked. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it and shook his head. He looked down at Duncan's palm again. "I'll go fetch the whiskey."

  
~~~~~  


Telling Joe about his Immortality was both an experience he'd rather never repeat--it took a long time to get an inquisitive man up to speed--and a relief so complete that he once again counted his lucky stars that he had a friend named Joe. In whatever universe he seemed to have found himself in.

"So," Joe said, syllables only slightly slurred. Duncan glanced at the whiskey bottle. Sure enough, it was empty. Joe'd placed a "Closed For Family Emergency" sign on the door, and then had locked it. "So," Joe said again. "What're our options again?"

Duncan held up one finger. "I'm dreaming."

"Or _I'm_ dreaming," Joe interjected.

"Or that," Duncan said, smiling indulgently. He held up another finger. "I'm dead and this is heaven. Or maybe, purgatory." He paused. That was the most likely explanation so far, he thought. He didn't actually remember the finishing moves of his fight with Fisk. What if.... He shuddered. What if what he remembered as his whole body hitting the water was actually just his _head_ hitting the water?

"Come on." Joe broke into his thoughts. "Be morbid later."

"Three." Duncan dutifully held up another finger. "I've gone mad. This is all in my mind. Four, I've gone through a hole in the time-space continuum and now exist on an alternate reality."

"I like that one," Joe said. "Best case scenario. Means you can get back home."

"I like the first one. A good nightmare and I wake up with Methos." Duncan's gaze traveled to the door where Adam--not Methos--had escaped hours ago.

Joe hadn't had enough to drink to miss the look. "Huh. Maybe you'd better explain the thing about Adam."

Duncan groaned. It'd been hard enough explaining it the first time to _his_ Joe. "Well, in my life, Adam isn't Adam, his name is Methos. He's also an Immortal. Like I am. We…uh…we're lovers." He watched Joe's reaction.

"With _Adam_?" 

"No, with Methos," Duncan corrected.

"With Methos," Joe repeated. "I can't get used to that." He stared down at his legs. "It's your life that sounds like the nightmare to me. This one suits me just fine." He cleared his throat, seemingly suddenly sober. "So. We need to get you back."

Duncan nodded. "I'd prefer that, yes." He stood up and stretched lightly. "And I also need to find out if there are any other Immortals here."

"Right." Joe tilted the whiskey glass, his attention on the amber liquid. "Perhaps first you ought to show me where…where my Duncan is."

Duncan nodded. "Of course." He stood up slowly, thinking over the earlier sad encounter. "What was he like?" He shook his head. "Never mind. I don't need to know."

Joe got to his feet, smoothly enough that Duncan was again reminded of the very distinct difference between this Joe and the one he'd known. Talking to him, drinking with him, he'd almost forgotten. "He was a good man. A very good man. Maybe too good." Joe sighed. "Car's out back. You'd better drive. I've had my fill."

It didn't take very long to drive back to the dock area. Joe was silent, staring at the passing scenery, thinking his own thoughts. Duncan couldn't share the man's grief--could he grieve for himself, if he'd never known himself? He shook his head. The convoluted semantics and logic were ultimately too confusing. His troubles were less linked to the death of a man, but rather, why he had died. People didn't chain themselves up for a swim at the bottom just for fun. 

They were both quiet as they walked to the near-forgotten corner of the dock. In the murky depths, the shadow of a figure could be seen.

Joe choked out a sob. "Oh, Duncan." He pressed his palms to his eyes and stayed like that for a long time, finally pulling his hands down so he could gaze at the sky. "Damn it all." He looked over to Duncan. "It wasn't real until just now," he said, his voice cracking a little. "With you standing there, I thought…I don't know what I thought, but it wasn't real. He wasn't gone."

Duncan took his new friend into a hug. "I'm very sorry, Joe. If I could do anything, I would." 

Joe gave a dismayed sob, not unlike the sound he'd made when Duncan had first told him about his arrival in this strange new land. It hadn't seemed quite real, back in the bar. His Joe and this Joe were the same in every way that really counted, and he suspected that it had been that way for Joe. With Duncan right there, telling the story, it had seemed more like jest than truth, and it wasn't until the heart caught up with the mind that things broke down.

Duncan pulled back. "I'm going to go and wait by the car. You let me know when you're ready and we'll go get the police."

Joe gaped at him. "Police? Are your brains scrambled, too?" He pointed at the water. "Mac _died_."

"Yes, I know."

"What do you think is going to happen when you wander willy-nilly into the police station? Oh hey, come and see this dead body I found?" 

Duncan opened his mouth, but found he didn't have a reply.

Joe glared at him. "Yeah, a little bit of a problem, won't that be? You're _him_ now. You're Mac, you're in his place."

"No. I'm going back. Or waking up. Or whatever it is that I have to do."

Joe barked out a laugh, short and wild. "Yeah. Then do it. Right now. Go on. Go ahead. _Do it_." He motioned with his hands. "This is where you showed up. Go jump in the ocean, and go back where you came from."

Duncan glanced at the water. It couldn't be that simple, could it? Just go through the same area again? Like a door? He took a few steps towards the edge of the dock. 

"Jump!" Joe yelled behind him, and Duncan stared down into the water. 

Yeah, maybe it was that simple, he decided, and stepped off. 

The water was still very cold, and very smelly. Duncan was glad he hadn't changed or showered yet, because he once again was drenched and stinking, and he was feeling rather put-out. What did the stupid universe have against him? What had he ever done to it? 

"Anything?" Joe called from up above. "A tingle?"

"No." Duncan climbed out of the water. 

Joe stood in front of him. "You're forgetting something."

"What?"

"Mac." Joe pointed.

"Joe, the police," Duncan tried to gentle his tone, "will want to do things their own way."

"Don’t you dare throw this away. Don't you even be that stupid." Joe glared at him, and Duncan could see that his eyes were wet with unshed tears. "You're here and he's there, and it feels like he hasn't left yet. But he _is_ gone. Gone forever, and I never even said good-bye. And you will _not_ throw that away. You don't have anything here. If he's dead, then you're dead because you are him. And if he were here, he'd tell you the same as me. Hell, he'd help you dig the grave."

"Dig? Joe!"

"So, you and me, we're going to go down there and bring him up. And hide him properly."

Duncan stared at the man in front of him.

"You know it’s the only thing to do," Joe said. 

"It isn't right."

"Maybe not. But it's sensible. And if I know Duncan MacLeod-- _my_ Duncan--if he thought that hiding his demise would help you, he'd agree in a heartbeat." Joe paused and looked Duncan straight in the eyes. "Because you would have agreed in a heartbeat, if it'd been you."

Speechless, Duncan nodded. He would have, had the tables been turned, he'd have insisted on it, in fact. 

"Good, then," Joe said. "Now, let's go get my friend."

  
~~~~~  


It was a few hours before they were done, and they both left the dock without speaking much. Duncan felt strange all the way through. He supposed that burying oneself did that to a person. He glanced over at Joe. The man had an expression of almost serene acceptance, and Duncan wondered if the surrealness had overwhelmed him. Of course, it could just be a grimace because of the hideous smell that both of them now exuded. They'd probably need to burn their clothes.

Joe drove through the streets, the hum of the tires on road beneath them, and Duncan realized he was very tired. He gazed out the window and frowned.

"I thought we were going back to the bar?"

"In these clothes? I don't think so." Joe spared a quick look. "I thought I'd show you where you live, and then scram for the night."

"I don't live…."

"You live here." Joe pulled into the driveway of a near-mansion. The house rose up against the sky like a modernist construction, more glass than concrete, all straight lines and parallels, with multiple levels and engaging flat spaces. The grass was pristine, the color of the outside of a watermelon rind, like someone had scribbled all over the lawn with a crayon labeled 'greenest green ever'. 

"Here? You're joking." Duncan snorted. But the look on Joe's face was faint amusement, with no complicity at all. "You aren't joking. This?" He swung an arm to encompass the entire structure. "I live here?"

"You live here. Come on." Joe wandered the last few feet up the drive and punched the key code into the machine. "Duncan gave me the code a couple months ago. Never thought I'd have to use it. One Six Two Two, that's the code."

Duncan nodded. "Got it." He stared around him at the house. He'd had good taste. He grinned. Well, of course, he'd like it, hadn't he picked it out, in a manner of speaking?

They went up stairs to the top level, where the bathroom was an enormous affair with tiled shower, and soaking tub, a radiant-heated floor, and enough towels for a hundred guests. It seemed Duncan had been fond of his creature comforts.

Duncan gestured to the bathroom. "You go first. I'm sure there's something here that you can wear."

Joe paused, as if he were about to decline, but then nodded and vanished into the bathroom. 

It gave Duncan time to get used to the place. He toured the top level, which consisted mainly of a loft style bedroom--complete with king bed and silk sheets--as well as the bathroom. The top floor was only three-quarters as wide as the main level, with a railing running the length that allowed for protection from walking off into space, and gave the feeling that the entire house was just one large bachelor pad. The bedroom area was wide and open, containing a sofa, desk, and comfortable chairs, and one entire wall that was covered with filled bookshelves. The walls were concrete, every fixture and surface was stainless steel, and the floors were wide pine-boards, gleaming a comforting, bright homey yellow. Duncan drifted towards the windows, which were slanted to allow views of the sun, sky, and tree-tops, but not of the grey city. In the far corner was a set of French doors and Duncan pushed these open to discover a rooftop access. Small planted trees worked as privacy screens along one side, and the other side ended in a railing that one could lean against while watching the sun set. 

A stiff breeze was blowing, and Duncan stayed only a moment to scan the horizon. Then he went back inside, and down the stainless steel spiral staircase to the ground level. Here there was a fully functional kitchen, every imaginable appliance tucked neatly away into its own space. The floor was tiled, and again a radiant-heat design. Two small rooms off the kitchen served as a laundry area and a mud room, with access to the driveway. Duncan stood at the threshold of kitchen to living area, and looked up towards the bedroom area. The two story ceiling contained skylights, and Duncan smiled. It was a beautiful house. He loved the open feeling of it. This main level was sectioned off only by furniture into separate living areas. He felt as if at any moment, everything might get pushed to the walls and open up space for anything in the middle--space to work out, definitely. He patted his side. The katana was still there, safe and quiescent. He hadn't shown it to Joe yet, although he'd explained it earlier. 

Duncan went back upstairs. He'd heard the water shut off, and he was more than ready for his turn with the soap. Cleanliness was something he'd grown fond of.

He waved at Joe, who was digging around in the dresser for clothes, as he passed him. The outline of the man so familiar to him was odd, and he had to blink twice before he reconciled his incongruous memory of a man with artificial legs, to the man before him. This Joe was still very much an active athlete, tall and strong. 

Duncan closed and locked the bathroom door, carefully peeling his clothes off and piling them in a heap. They would definitely be going into the trash. He pulled free his katana, and gave a second glance to his coat. Well, perhaps that one he would try and wash. It could be difficult to set up an inside sheath until he was able to purchase the right materials. 

He turned the shower on, and instant hot water hit his back and neck, soothing sore muscles. The steam filled the room, easing his breathing, and finally--finally!--the horrible stench of sewer-weed was scrubbed away. With the water cascading down his head and over his shoulders, he leaned against the tile, tired beyond belief, and miserable. So far away, he thought. And he was. He was untold miles from his own home, and his own friends. His own love. 

He thought of the scene in the bar, and grimaced. He'd made an ass of himself, and probably been branded a maniac. He'd be lucky to ever catch another word from Adam now, and Adam was all there was here of Methos. 

Methos. His arms ached with the emptiness. His heart ached with the knowledge that, whatever theory was right, it was causing his friend a lot of pain. Duncan banged his head against the tile hard enough to draw a bump. He was pretty sure by now that this entire thing was not a nightmare caused by overexposure to sun and sea. 

His hands wandered lower, and he thought of his very own Methos, waiting for him in his very own bed. The steam swirled around him, the hot water pulsated against his skin, and Duncan focused on one of his favorite images--Methos with his eyes closed, luscious mouth open, head tilted back. 

When done, he vowed anew that he would find a way home.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and left the bathroom, a billowing cloud of steam following him into the bedroom. Joe was lounging on the sofa, head back and concentration upon the skylight above him. He looked to Duncan, eyes gone grey and sad.

"How long had you been friends?" Duncan asked as he rummaged around in the dresser.

"A long time," Joe recounted. "Years." He paused to think on it. "Fifteen years, I think. We met his last year of college. I'd just started the bar, and was foreseeing being in the red for the rest of my life. He came in one night, and we starting talking. Oh, he had plans." Joe laughed lightly to himself. "He was going to change the world. Make a difference. If there was a cause, he was part of it. If there was a friend in need, he was wading through the thick of it." Joe's expression sobered. "He championed the little guys. It's what got him killed."

"You mentioned a goon-squad." Duncan located a sweater. Cashmere. A perfect fit. He shivered, feeling a chill ghost over his skin. The old saying drifted through his mind, someone's walked over my grave, he thought.

"Yeah. Duncan got involved in some local politics. And I mean local." Joe turned his attention back to the skylight. "A local godfather wanna-be was extorting money from some local business owners. He didn't have to get involved, but he did anyway." Joe closed his eyes, and his voice grew soft. "He thought he was near impervious. He had wealth, charisma, prestige. Everything. Maybe it went to his head a little. He wasn't--" Joe choked out the last word. "Immortal."

Duncan paused in his surveying of the available clothes. "Joe."

Joe waved away the comment. "I'm just trying to understand. It isn't fair, and I know life is the last thing that's fair, but it still hurts." He sat up and punctuated his words, jabbing his fingers at his own chest. "Right here. It feels like I got the snot kicked out of me."

Duncan nodded. He picked out a pair of loose slacks from the closet. Again, a perfect fit. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror and felt a little better. He rubbed the smooth softness of the cashmere. "This house. These clothes. What kind of wealth are we talking?"

Joe shrugged. "I couldn't really tell you. A lot. He was never ostentatious, but you knew it was there." 

Duncan looked back at himself in the mirror. He felt comfortable. These were the kinds of clothes he'd have chosen for himself. "I'm sure there will be statements and records around here somewhere. I'll start going through everything." Duncan turned away from the mirror. "So, what did he do for a living? All this wealth came from somewhere."

"Ha. Yeah, he was good at investing. Had an instinct for it. But all the seed money came from his parents."

"Parents?" Duncan's mouth suddenly felt very dry. 

"I think they're in England or Scotland. Maybe Switzerland. Hell, I can't keep track of them. Obviously they're from Scotland, but they travel around a lot. His mother sends him postcards." Joe's voice mimicked a woman's falsetto, "Ta, darling. Having a wonderful time. Weather is dreadful."

Duncan tried to swallow, found it impossible. He had parents. A mother who sent postcards. He noticed the desk present against the interior railing, and he slowly pulled the drawers out one by one. The top one on the left was full of neatly stacked postcards, their glossy surfaces catching the lights. He fingered the top-most, the picture side of snow covered mountains, trees with bare branches that glistened with a coating of ice. Heart pounding, he turned it over. The handwriting was thin, but distinctly legible. "Duncan," he read out loud, "The weather is awful, as always. But here it’s a good thing, seeing as it’s a ski vacation. Your father is threatening to learn to snowboard, of course. Wish you'd been able to come. I hope for next time. Love, Mom." The postcard fluttered from his fingers back into the drawer, and he shut it. 

"Mac?" Joe asked. 

Duncan waved a hand, his throat catching. "I was," he searched for the word, "adopted. I never knew my real parents." He stared at Joe. "Do you know if…if he was also adopted?"

"Far as I know, they're the real thing."

Duncan sagged against the desk, resting his weight on the top. It was an incredible feeling to suddenly find that he had family--real, or not real--he glossed over the stumbling details of his usurping another's life. It was something he'd never even formulated a dream about, ever since Connor had found him and explained, it had just been one of the many things he'd set aside, left along the side of the road. 

He jerked his head up. "Does he-- Is there-- A wife? Children?" 

Joe shook his head. "Confirmed bachelor. A pretty girl every night of the week if he wanted, but he was shrewd enough to realize that lovely girls weren't love. He kept looking for that. Said he'd find it someday." Joe looked away quickly, head lowered.

Duncan took a deep breath to steady himself. Everything whirred around in his head. Things he'd abandoned lifetimes ago were now available to him. A family. Friends. Perhaps even an end to the Game. No more fighting. No more killing. 

A strange lightness filled him, and he decided that he must have gone mad. He slid down until he sat on the floor, his back pressed against the railing, and laughed until tears streamed out his eyes, and Joe came to stand over him with a worried expression.

"I wish you'd tell me what's so damn funny."

Duncan shook his head. "Everything, Joe. Everything." He glanced at his watch, one of the few things that had survived the wretched treatment of ocean and digging. "But it's late, and you can't close down the bar two days in a row." He glanced at the king size bed. "It's large enough for two."

Joe made a face.

Duncan laughed again and held his hands up. "Or I can take the couch. Or you can drive home."

"Nah." Joe sunk down on the couch again. "Find me a blanket, and right here is just fine. I'm tired enough, I'll sleep like a rock."

Duncan acquiesced, and searched for a blanket, finally finding one in the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was wool, and the feel of the fabric was comfortingly familiar. He draped it over Joe, who stared at him with a solemn look on his face. 

"Tomorrow," Duncan promised, "things will begin to look a little better. And then the tomorrow after that, a little better yet. Eventually, neither of us will remember the exact nature of the gaping aches in our hearts."

"Maybe," Joe said, "but in the meantime, good night." He turned over, settling down under the blanket.

"Good night," Duncan replied, and went to the bed. Against his skin, the sheets slid luxuriously, reminding him of his absent lover's hands. The silk warmed quickly, cocooning him, protecting him, and reminding him how singular a cocoon truly was. Consequences and trade-offs, he thought as he drifted to sleep, too exhausted to fight for wakefulness. What price peace? Another Duncan's life? An everlasting cut-off from Methos, and his other friends? 

Sometimes, things were too expensive.

  
~~~~~  


The sunlight streaming in through the skylights woke Duncan early the next morning. He stared at the ceiling and the blue, blue sky beyond, and didn't turn his head. The impossible belief that everything was a dark dream had fizzled in the light the very moment he'd opened his eyes, because in his own home, in his own bed, there should have been no overhead windows to the outside world. Duncan rolled out of bed reluctantly and noted that Joe was still sleeping on the couch. The soft noise of Duncan's movements, though, woke him too.

"Still here, are you?" Joe asked. "Yeah, I suppose it was too much to hope it'd all been brought on by bad anchovies." He yawned and got up. "So now what?"

"Now," Duncan said, "we flip a coin to see who uses the bathroom first, and then we go downstairs for some breakfast."

"Huh." Joe gave Duncan the once over. "And here I thought I was the guest."

Duncan gave a slight nod, and gestured towards the bathroom. "All yours, then."

Joe yawned again and shuffled into the bathroom.

Duncan went downstairs and investigated the kitchen more thoroughly. Fully stocked, immaculately kept. He wondered if it was taken care of by hired help, or done by hand. In any case, it was easy to locate the coffee maker, which he set for a full pot, the grinding of the beans giving the kitchen a gourmet smell that it had previously lacked. Duncan wandered through the kitchen and wondered if the other Duncan had actually eaten here very often at all. 

Joe came down and Duncan took his turn in the bathroom. When he came out, he glanced over the railing and could see Joe drinking coffee. He went downstairs and prepared his own cup.

"Well," Joe said. "I suppose this is the first day of the rest of your life. So what are you going to do?"

Duncan took a long sip of his coffee and considered Joe over the rim of his cup. "I've got two things I need to do. One. I need to find out if Immortals exist here. And Watchers. Two. I need to find a way back."

Joe blew out his breath. "Whew. Good luck with those. Might as well plan to reconstruct the Eiffel Tower in your back yard."

"Well," Duncan said, and grinned, "a man's got to have a hobby."

Joe laughed. "Yeah." He drained the last of his coffee, got up and rinsed the mug in the sink, and placed it to dry. "Well, this old dog has got to get going. I need to get into some of my own clothes, and I've got a gin joint to run." He leaned against the counter. "You going to be okay for the day?"

"Should be," Duncan said. He thumbed towards the computer upstairs. "A little virtual hike around the world, first, I think." 

"Sure." Joe moved to leave and paused at the door. "Do you think you can find the bar from here, or should I drop by after I close?"

Duncan smiled. "I'll come see you, Joe. I'm sure by then I'll have a whole list of questions." After Joe had left, Duncan refilled his coffee mug and wandered upstairs. He turned on the computer and held his breath for a long moment, waiting to see if he was going to spend the morning breaking a pass-code or not. A long moment of blank screen had his heart thumping, but then the desktop cheerily popped up and Duncan bent to his task.

First order of business, and the easiest, was to check the phone numbers he remembered of his friends against those given by the directories, and then to call them. He rummaged through the neatly kept desk, avoiding the drawer with the postcards in it--he wasn't ready to tackle that yet, and found a pad of paper and a pen. Then he jotted down all the contact information he could about his friends. He stared at the paper when he was done, and after a moment, bent to the task again, his heart aching. It wasn't enough just to list those that he thought to be alive, but also those others that had passed out of his life. After all, Methos was somewhere around five thousand years old, so he shouldn't have a doppelganger here at all. Adam should have been born and died a long time past.

Duncan tried to swallow, a lump in his throat suddenly present and very hard. Methos. Adam. 

He must have gone mad, after all. 

If it were truly another world then there would be no Adam…and Duncan forced himself away from that line of thinking. It didn't matter yet, that was Number Two. First he needed to discover if Immortals existed here. Then he could work on getting back. Somehow.

Notes taken, he took a deep breath and began searching directories using the computer. Mostly, he was amazed to find, he came up with the same information as he'd remembered. Even down to the same telephone digits.

Finally, though, he could avoid it no longer. He reached for the phone. Waiting while it rang was near unbearable. 

"Hello?" asked a pleasant feminine voice in French.

"Hello," Duncan replied, switching languages. "I'm looking for Tessa Noel. My name is Duncan MacLeod."

There was a long pause, and then the woman spoke. "I'm very sorry, Monsieur. Ms. Noel has…left us." 

"Did she leave a forwarding address? Phone number?"

The woman cleared her throat. "I mean that Ms. Noel has recently…." The woman tried again. "She is no longer…."

"Ah," Duncan said, and his heart broke all over again from a wound that he had thought if not healed, then at least mended enough. But the pain of it was bright and new again. "I see. Did she…did she leave any artwork? I mean, is any still available? For sale?" He found that he was clutching at the handset, his fingers had gone white, and he watched them as if from a distance. At least back home, where he belonged, he had things set aside, mementoes large and small, to ease the remembering, and comfort the heart. 

"No, I'm afraid she didn't. It was all donated."

Duncan took a deep breath and plunged onwards. "I am so sorry to be forward, but it has been many years, and Tessa was a dear friend. How did…."

"Oh," the woman's voice was full of sorrow, "it was a very sad thing. Cancer. Very quickly."

"Thank you," Duncan whispered, and hung up. He unclenched his fingers, flexing them as he walked over to the large bed, staring at his own hands. He fell onto the bed, his hands in front of him, watching their color gradually change from the near-white to pink. Past his hands, a white cloud hung motionless in the sky framed by the windows in the ceiling. He let his hands fall to his side, and stared at the sky, thinking of nothing at all.

He wasn't sure if it was hours later or minutes, but eventually he found that the burden of grief had once again shifted, and he was able to contain it, and he left the bed. He grabbed a quick snack from the kitchen, and sat back down at the desk, prepared to do battle. He guarded his heart this time, ready to accept any wild tale, or strange situation that he might learn about.

The rest of the correspondence went a little bit smoother. He wasn't able to track down most of his friends, and was forced to leave messages on countless voice-mails and machines, but the few that he did reach seemed to have no idea about anything encompassing Immortality. Half of those he did reach already knew him as the other Duncan, and joyfully regaled him with recent information. Gina de Valicourt remonstrated him for not being married yet with little babies for her to dote on and spoil, and then asked him why his mother hadn't yet been able to visit. "She's so busy this time of year," Duncan extemporized.

"Yes, yes, of course. Well, then make sure you do come and visit. Ta, sweetheart."

Duncan had sat staring at the phone. He wouldn't know for sure until he actually came within distance of them, but the scales tipped heavily towards the idea that Immortality just did not exist here. Or if it did, then no one he knew to be Immortal was such here. This hypothesis would be more difficult to prove or disprove, as it involved him, more or less, driving and walking about until he felt the presence of another. Not feeling another Immortal didn't prove the non-existence of them, it only meant he needed to keep searching.

Duncan rubbed at his temples. 

He glanced at his pad of paper. Two names popped out at him: Fitzcairn and Darius. He hadn't been able to contact either. Fitz's answering machine had been so full of messages that there hadn't even been room to leave one more, and wherever Darius was, he wasn't at the church in Paris. Of course not, he thought. Why would Darius be there? He'd never had a Light Quickening, so he wouldn't have chosen to become a priest. Too much, he decided, to think about all at once.

The next order of business was to determine whether the Watchers existed or not. Joe had no knowledge of them, and no tattoo on his wrist. Maybe the Watchers didn't exist at all. Which didn't necessarily mean that Immortals didn't exist, just that there was no mountebank organization dealing in the shadows. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to discover their existence. He'd known of a few back door entries into their system, thanks to Methos and his ever-constant preparedness. But none of them worked. In fact, none of them even seemed to be needed to work, because the system he wanted to hack into wasn't there for the hacking. Neither did any references exist that Duncan could find, even after scouring newspaper archives. 

The last thing he researched was the weather.

Golden afternoon sun stretched into grey evening shadows as he sat hunched over the computer, skimming through multitudinous articles on freak weather incidents, reports of strange weather, and any deaths caused by Mother Nature in her acting upon the fragile world of man. By the end, all he really wanted was a good stiff drink. His neck was certainly stiff enough to go along with the drink, and his wrists, and his poor eyeballs. He blinked several times and began to feel better.

Pushing back from the desk, he looked down at the one drawer he'd avoided all day. Not yet, he decided. He'd tackle that challenge some other time. Right now, it was time to relax, and to catch up with Joe.

Deciding that a night spent sleeping in his clothes, and a day spent drudging over a hot CPU had left him rumpled, he showered and then changed into new clothes. This time he found jeans and a thin brown sweater that seemed familiar, although he could not remark upon it. 

He went downstairs and located a small glass dish nearby the entry to the attached garage. Inside it sat three sets of keys, and Duncan scooped them all into his pocket.

He went into the garage and paused. There sat his Thunderbird, ageless and graceful, as if he had parked it there himself. Beyond it were two more vehicles: one a large SUV of hulking presence, and another car that was one of the new hybrids now available on the market. He'd been planning on getting one, back home. His doppelganger had beaten him to the punch.

He slid onto the seat of the Thunderbird, running his hand along the length of leather, his fingers searching for and finding a small cut. He'd put it there a year ago when he'd had to quickly hide his katana out of sight. As he turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the garage, he wondered what had happened in the other Duncan's life that his Thunderbird had the exact same defect.

Feeling unsettled, Duncan didn't bother to drive around the city too much. He could gain his bearings better tomorrow, in the day-light, and see what was the same or different then. The car practically purring beneath his hands, he drove straight to the bar, parking the Thunderbird in the space he usually preferred, and headed for the entrance. He could hear the music thumping, muffled, through the door and walls, and the familiar neon sign glowed like a guiding star in the night. 

Entering the bar was a balm of familiarity. People grouped together, talking and laughing, the music thrummed to life from the hands of talented musicians, and Joe stood behind the counter, surveying it all. The only thing missing was the anticipated hum of buzz, noting that Methos were there and waiting for him, and that last piece reminded Duncan once again that he was traversing a strange land.

He sidled up to the bar, squeezing in between two couples engaged in conversation. 

Busy with other customers, Joe raised an eyebrow, and Duncan nodded. A moment later he was rewarded with a dark ale which he sipped as he waited for Joe to find a free moment. While waiting, he surveyed the room. It was full of the flush of humanity, the warmth of so many crowded together pressing in on him, but by the time he had finished his survey--having gone from the red-headed young man in the corner with the nose ring to the older man in the back sitting by himself--Duncan felt faintly annoyed and disappointed, and it took a moment to realize that he'd been hoping to spot Adam.

Joe finally came over, still behind the bar, and thumbed at the back door. Duncan nodded and they both retired to the office in the back, an office that Duncan noted looked little different than the one he was used to.

"Some night," Joe opened, "New band. And they're more popular than I thought."

"They're good," Duncan answered, circling the room, trying to spot any differences.

"So, tell me how your day went." Joe sat down at his desk and starting rifling papers from one side to the other, glancing through them quickly and putting them in piles.

"About what you'd expect." Duncan dropped into a chair. "I talked to a few people. I did a lot of searching. I couldn't find any information about either the Watchers or Immortals, and the people I talked to didn't know what I meant."

"Maybe they were all hiding it?" Joe suggested.

"Maybe," Duncan conceded. "But I don't think so. First off, why would they? Where I come from, we're all Immortal, so we have that background already there. It just exists."

"Yeah, but here, Mac wasn't Immortal." Joe looked away for a moment and cleared his throat. Duncan waited until he'd regained his composure. "Anyways," Joe went on, "maybe they still are Immortal and since you--or they think you--aren't, they won't drop the bag."

"Maybe." Duncan shrugged. "The only way to really know then, is for me to meet them in person. Once I do that I'll know for certain. It'll be a first step. I have a few friends that live within a couple hours driving distance. It'll give me something to do this week." He watched Joe move more papers around. "Although I already have one person on the list crossed off."

"Hmm?" Joe said, staring particularly hard at one invoice. 

"Adam. Has he been around? I wanted to apologize…."

Joe sent him a hard glance, eyes narrowed. "What do you want with Adam? You already said he isn't part of it, so leave him be. Boy's had enough trouble, without you starting any more."

Duncan held his hands up. "I just--"

"You just nothing," Joe said, voice edged sharp with warning. "Leave him alone."

"What do you mean he's had trouble?" Duncan asked softly, but Joe gave him another stonewall look, and Duncan let the subject drop. He had wanted to apologize for his earlier behavior, but that had only been secondary to his real reason--he'd just wanted to see Methos' alternate--look at the familiar face, and hear the familiar voice. It had been nothing but selfish interest on his part, true, but it wouldn't have hurt anything…well, anything other than his heart.

"So, what next?" Joe asked, shuffling the papers aside for the moment.

"Getting home. Going back. I don't belong here." Duncan drained the last of his ale, which he'd brought with him. He set the glass on a near-by table. "I'm going to work on the theory that I can get home. If I've gone insane, there isn't much I can do. If I'm dead and this is what happens, or if I'm dreaming, there isn't much I can do. But it'll at least keep me busy." Duncan stood. "In the meantime, I'm going to continue to be Duncan MacLeod."

Joe nodded, and that was that.

  
~~~~~  


It was over a month before Duncan found himself lounging at Joe's in the lazy hours between lunch and dinner. The bar was practically empty, and Duncan was recounting for Joe his plans with regards to a meeting he had with an upcoming noted scientist in physics.

Joe swiped at the counter-top. "And he agreed to meet with you?"

Duncan grinned. "I'm a very assiduous contributor to charities and higher education."

"Right," Joe said. "He wants to make nice."

"It's a step in the right direction." Duncan took a swallow of beer. "It's a possibility. He just won an award for his theory about wormholes or tessellations, or something."

"Sounds like a lot of hooey." Joe eyed his cash register. "I need to count the drawer. It's been coming up short."

"I'm not going anywhere." Duncan took another sip of beer and relaxed in his chair. He felt much more comfortable lately in his own persona. The first week he'd been here he'd had so much to learn, he had barely been able to make sense of anything. Having the world turned topsy-turvy did that to a person, he thought. It had taken a while to distill out the important things in Duncan MacLeod's life--in fact, he was still finding occasional surprises--but for the most part, he had things in hand. The other Duncan had been very astute when it came to business, and very organized when it came to records. Duncan raised his glass in a salute to his other self. 

He'd traveled to visit two of his local friends, and neither of them had been Immortal, although they'd been glad to see him. It had made him a little melancholy to see them, knowing that in this time and place he would have to learn to count in days and hours instead of decades and centuries. Having gone home with a heart oddly heavy, he'd postponed visiting other counterparts of friends he'd known. He'd already decided that he would still always carry his sword. If he ever returned home--whether by plan or by accident--he wanted it on him when it happened.

Duncan drained the last of his drink and looked up to see someone pass by him. 

Adam.

Adam slowed in front of him, eyes narrowing for a moment, and then his attention snapped away, his focus on the end of the bar. Ignore the villainous man, and perhaps he'd leave you alone, Duncan thought. He smiled grimly to himself. 

"Hey," he said and Adam only gave him a quick nod and kept going. "Hey," he tried again, getting up and walking along side. "I've been hoping to come across you. I wanted to apologize."

Adam stopped and turned to him. His expression was one of hardly guarded antipathy. "No need. You go your way and I'll go mine. No problem." He started again towards the end of the bar, and Duncan winced to see the lame stride, the curled hand clutching the walking stick. 

"No, it isn't enough," Duncan insisted, putting as much sincerity as he dared into his voice. Too much earnestness and Adam would surely think him capable of worse behavior. "Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you a beer?"

Adam stopped again, although this time he'd reached the end of the bar. He grabbed a bundle of mail that had been tucked away. He gave Duncan an appraising glance. "The bartender here gives me drinks on the house already."

"Well, then," Duncan said, and grinned. "I'll just have to take you elsewhere."

Adam flashed a smile which was quickly doused. "Nah. Thanks for your generous offer, but I'm fine." He began the arduous process of returning the way he had come. Duncan cringed to see it, knowing from memory that that long, lean body should have been able to move smoothly, near-effortlessly. He recalled to mind the times he'd sparred with Methos, how cunning and effortless had the movements seemed as each agile limb had worked to confound him. He shook his head to clear the memory away. It only hurt to focus on what he was missing.

Duncan watched him make his way to the door, and leave. He put his glass down on the bar top, and then followed.

It wasn't difficult to follow Adam. He was slow, moving deliberately down the street, and Duncan wondered how far away he lived. He glanced uneasily at the surrounding buildings. All of them were low-rent, poorly-cared for properties. Yet, Adam's mobility was so impaired that to live too much further away…Duncan found himself growing upset. 

Adam eventually stopped in front of a crumbling, decrepit building that was once the epitome of an art deco show-stopper office building, but which was now obviously re-constructed into apartments. Duncan waited to see him go into the front door into the lobby, but instead he turned down a set of five concrete stairs, and into what appeared to be a basement apartment, sans windows.

It took Duncan five minutes to control his breathing. 

He turned away, and retrieved the Thunderbird. Ten minutes later he parked in front of the sad little place, and knocked on the door.

Adam came to the door, eyes narrowed, and cane poised for action. "Taken to following me home now?" 

Duncan gave him a little smile. "Yeah, well. You don't make it easy."

"No." Adam gave him a withering stare. "Not much good comes when odd men knock at your door."

"Point taken." Duncan could see past Adam and into the apartment. It was clean, but very sparse. The kitchen area was small, compact, and about one third of the entire apartment. "Look, I was going to invite you to take a ride, but I'm guessing that's out."

"You're a good guesser."

"How about you pick a place, and we can walk there. My treat, I swear."

Adam sighed. "It's early for supper."

"So we'll beat the crowds."

Adam glared at him with such a familiar sharp-as-a-whetted-knife look that Duncan laughed. It only made Adam glare all the harder. When he stopped laughing, Duncan took out his wallet and pulled cash from it. He pushed it into Adam's free hand. "Take this. It's a marker against my running out on the check."

Adam scowled, but nodded. "Joe seems to think you're all right. I suppose if you're Joe's friend, I can at least walk down the street in your general vicinity." He waved the hand full of money down the street. "There's a little eatery down that way. Best pizza this side of town."

Duncan smiled happily. 

Adam pulled the door closed behind him and Duncan waited as he carefully made his way up the stairs. His gait was slow, but steady as they walked down the sidewalk towards the restaurant. Neither of them spoke until they reached the pizza joint. Duncan stared up at the menu and a flash of recognition came to him. He _knew_ this menu. Oh, he'd never been in the actual place, but Methos had a secret pizza parlor that he patronized at least once a week. 

Duncan didn't wait for Adam to order. "One large pie," he said. "Extra thin crust. With extra garlic. Extra cheese. Extra sauce on the side."

Adam stared at him open mouthed.

Duncan motioned towards the drink cooler. "Grab what you like. That even I couldn't guess." He paid for the pizza and they sat down at one of the four tables to wait.

"How'd you do that?" Adam asked, his gaze again narrowing with suspicion. "You've done more than follow me home." His words dripped with distaste, a sour under-bite to them.

"No, I swear." Duncan opened his water bottle. "Really. I-- I told you. When I first saw you, I thought you were someone else. It was just a guess."

"A good guess," Adam told him. "That's my favorite."

I know, Duncan wanted to say, but held his tongue. Instead, he opted for a question. "How'd you get hurt?" He motioned vaguely to Adam's leg and arm, and when that gaze shifted again, he quickly added, "Other than pizza choices, I don't know anything about you."

"It was an accident," Adam said slowly. He looked down at his near-useless hand. "Just a stupid accident. I used to train horses. And one day, I misjudged, and the horse lost its footing. It came down on top of me. I broke every other bone in my body." He looked up, and something in Duncan's expression must have rung true because he finally smiled. "It was a long time ago. I've learned to live with it now."

Duncan nodded, remembering his own falls and tumbles from horses. He'd broken bones many times, but his Immortality had kept it all from being permanent. "You don't still train horses, then?"

"No. Can't." Adam shrugged. "I can't do much of anything, actually. I've a few other problems--other than the obvious. Employers don't like employees with health problems."

Duncan thought back on the small apartment, and the spare-ness of it. "Yeah, I guess they wouldn't." He drank his water and Adam sipped his drink, both of them quietly contemplating their own thoughts. 

"So, what is it you do?" Adam asked.

"I invest mostly," Duncan said, thinking back to the many ledgers that he'd found in the house. "And a little antiquing." He tapped his head. "I've a good eye for ancient things."

"Sounds nice. I like antiques. It is interesting to wonder about the history behind the object."

"Yes," Duncan agreed and prepared to go into a story about one of his favorite finds when he noticed a strange look pass across Adam's face. He looked up. The door to the restaurant had squeaked open and a dark-haired teenaged boy was standing there, staring at their table with a surprised expression, then he grinned at them with a wicked curl to his lips, and was handed a stack of pizza take-out boxes. "Who’s that?" Duncan asked, his voice low.

The boy gave them another teeth-flashing grin and vanished out the door, balancing the boxes in front of him. An engine gunned out on the street, tires squealed, and Duncan ran to the door to see the car drag-race itself down the street, running stop signs as it went. There was no license plate on the back end.

He returned to the table. "Who was that?"

"Nobody you need to know," Adam said, face pale and eyes flashing.

"Adam--"

"Just drop it."

Against his better judgment, Duncan did. If it had been Methos, he could have pressed. But Adam he'd now known for all of an hour, if you counted the five minutes back in the bar a month ago where he'd threatened him, demanding to know how he'd managed to lose his buzz. Duncan grinned, remembering how Adam had raised his cane against him. 

They waited quietly until the pizza arrived at the table, and then ate quietly. When done, Duncan pushed back his chair, staring ruefully at the left over pieces. "Next time we'll order a medium."

Adam snorted. "And miss out on leftovers. Come on. It's actually better the second day when it's cold."

Duncan made a face. "You always--" He stopped.

Adam stared at him, but this time the look was inquisitive. "I always what?" he asked.

"You always say that," Duncan repeated and turned his head.

"I look just like your friend, huh?" 

Duncan nodded, unable to speak.

"Yeah." Adam looked thoughtful. "It happens. Right after my wife passed, there was this girl, and I thought…I wanted to think…that it was her. And I tried to talk to her, but when I got closer, the illusion vanished."

"Your wife?" 

Adam nodded. "Her name was Alexa. We were married for a little less than a year. Before the accident. She…she became ill."

"I'm very sorry." Duncan reached out and put his hand on top of Adam's. 

"Yeah, well, you pay your money," Adam said, "you take your chances." But he didn't pull his hand away. "Your friend?"

"Estranged at the moment," Duncan said, voice sliding into a guttural sibilance at the end.

"Yeah," Adam said, and it seemed like enough had been said. They boxed up the pizza and returned to Adam's apartment, commenting on little things as they walked back.

Duncan paused at Adam's door, Adam handing back the wad of bills that Duncan had shoved at him. Duncan took them back, wishing he could make Adam keep the money, but they weren't there yet, might never be there. Dinner was one thing--it was a gift between friends, or two people who might become friends--but money was another.

"Thanks for the pizza," Adam told him. "Apology now accepted."

Duncan smiled. "Good. See you tomorrow, then."

The look of surprise was priceless. "No, no. Definitely no," Adam said when he regained his ability for speech. "This was very nice of you, and I even kind of think you aren't a bad guy anymore, but no. No. I don't know what you think this is, but you can just get it right out of your head. I like my life just the way it is. I don't need anyone else looking after me. I don't need sympathy, and I don't need pity. I'm fine just the way things are, so you can just scratch me off whatever list you've put me on, and go away. Thank you very much and good bye." The glare was back, turned up to a finely honed outraged wattage.

Duncan tipped his head just a fraction. "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left Adam staring after him as he drove off.

  
~~~~~  


Duncan drove back to Joe's with his thoughts jumbled in his brain. He was deliriously happy, in a lightheaded way that should have floated him into the stratosphere, and yet, he was ballasted by sandbags. Here was Adam--and he couldn't deny that just being with the man made his blood run hot and cold at the same time, but was that because of Adam or Methos?--and yet, far away, in another world, was the real Methos--probably thinking he was dead, or worse--he _was_ dead and Methos was now grieving. He should feel like the lowest of skunks, like the most rotten little worm…and yet, he just couldn't manage it. Make merry while you may, he decided.

The bar was much busier now than it had been earlier, but Joe was still unencumbered. He waved as Duncan entered. "Where'd you vanish off to?"

Duncan grinned. "Against your better wishes, I went to talk to Adam."

"Why'd you do that?" Joe frowned. "He just needs to be left alone."

"Maybe," Duncan replied. "One conversation over pizza is not a great basis for me to try and figure out what he needs. Other than maybe one more friend. Those," he said, "you can never have too many of."

"Bastard." Joe's frown deepened. "You're harassing him because of that other _guy_."

Duncan sighed. "I suppose. It's part of it." He looked Joe in the eye. "I don't plan on hurting him. His company is just kind of…soothing." 

"Huh," Joe grunted. "I guess I can understand that," he begrudged. "Just see that you don't hurt him. You might feel better seeing him since he reminds you of yours, but for him…well, he doesn't need it."

Duncan nodded solemnly, then changed the subject. "I've got things to take care of back home. I was hoping you'd stop by sometime. I've got some paperwork I'd like a second opinion on."

"Sure." Joe glanced around. "Tonight? It'll be late if I come tonight. My manager is here, but with this situation with the cash register…." A dark look crossed Joe's face. "I suppose I could swing by tomorrow before coming here."

"Tomorrow is fine," Duncan assured him. "It's just some paperwork. Nothing too taxing, I promise."

Joe glanced at his watch. "See you in the bright and not so early, then."

"Good. Thanks," Duncan said and left the bar. When he got home, he pulled into the designated slot and dropped the keys into the glass bowl. He turned a few lights on and then wandered around the house, idly picking up or cleaning this and that. His mind whirred across topics and subjects, remembering that day's outing, the way Adam's eyes had caught the sunlight. Eventually he went upstairs. He spent most of his time up here, usually at the desk taking care of things, learning the details of this new life that he occupied. It was a quiet life, really. He'd stopped making entrées into anything social, only perfunctorily returning the phone calls of the darling-sounding socialites that left messages, blowing kisses into the machine.

Duncan sighed, and fired up the computer. He'd been spending the better part of most nights searching for a way home. The internet was a labyrinth of information, and half of it was mostly truth, and the other half mostly lies. It might take him a few hundred years to unravel the whole thing. 

It was a long time later when a knock came at the door. Duncan rubbed at his face, which now carried the imprint of the upper left corner of his keyboard, and stood up, peering over the railing. Joe let himself in and waved. 

"You are still up," Joe called towards the second floor with a grin. "Bachelor life really agrees with you." He re-assessed, pausing for a moment, the grin spreading. "Or you never went to bed."

Tiredly, Duncan returned the grin, knowing he'd been caught out about falling asleep. "We can't all be night-owls like some people I know." He stifled a yawn. "I'll be right down. I don't know about you, but I need some coffee."

"I'll start it," Joe said, and by the time Duncan reached the main floor, coffee preparations were half-way finished. 

Duncan grabbed two mugs out of a cupboard. "I appreciate your coming over. There're just a few things. Mostly, I wanted your opinion of two pages that I found. With names listed. 

"Names?"

"Yes," Duncan said. "Names." He produced the two pieces of paper from a drawer in the kitchen. "I found them hidden in the freezer. Rolled up and tucked under the frozen peas."

Joe gingerly took the pages, looked them over, and closed his eyes. "I knew he had started these," he finally said. "I just didn't know there were so many names."

"Joe?" Duncan asked gently.

"Two lists. One of the bad guys. The other of the victims." Joe pointed to one of the pages, running his fingertip down the length of the column. "All these names, these people. They're the bastards that must have killed him."

Duncan reached out and put his hand on Joe's shoulder, feeling the man shake. "You know I'll do anything I can," he said softly.

Joe nodded. "I know. It's just. This is why they killed him. If he'd just...." He shook his head as if to clear the thoughts, his hands resolving into fists. "Bastards. Cowards. Greedy, miserable assholes." He stared at his hands, releasing his tightly held fists, and looked to Duncan. "He wanted to stop them. Help people. They were leaning on a lot of people. Taking their tithe, running the protection racket like some god-forsaken mobster movie re-run on late-night tv."

Duncan stared at his friend. "I will take care of this," he vowed.

Joe stared back at him. "No," he said. "No. Two deaths won't make things any better."

"Joe--"

"No, damn it!"

They stared another moment longer, each holding the eye contact a fraction too long, and then Duncan nodded. "For now." And the moment was over. Joe's shoulders dropped and the tension in the room evaporated like steam in a desert.

Joe glanced at his mug of coffee, and yawned. "You need to get different coffee, this stuff wouldn't keep up an insomniac." 

Duncan grabbed the bag that Joe had made the coffee from and read the label. He burst out laughing. "It's decaf." 

"Well, shit." Chagrined and chuckling, Joe got up and retrieved the cream from the fridge, passing by a pile of mail that Duncan had set upon the countertop. He pushed aside the top envelope and picked up the postcard underneath. "Have you dealt with this yet?" he asked quietly.

Duncan shook his head. "No. Not yet." He grabbed two other postcards from a kitchen drawer he'd hidden them in. Just looking at them made him shake with emotions. Parents he'd never had, a chance for a family…and their true son lying dead and buried near the ocean. He'd been putting the whole thing off. 

Joe turned the cards over, reading them quickly. "Well, you'd better do something about it soon. Mom says that either you're coming to them for a visit--they've got a villa in Spain for the season--or they're coming to you."

Duncan covered his face with his hands. "How can I, Joe? How can I even look at them and pretend to be their son? They'd know in an instant. And how could I explain that I'm masquerading as him while I figure out what mistake the cosmos has made and how to fix it?"

Joe dropped the postcards back in the drawer. "Yeah, well, we'll think of something." 

Duncan sipped at his coffee. "Speaking of mail, I wanted to ask you something."

"What about?"

"Adam picks his mail up at your bar. Why?"

Joe frowned, and his look grew dark. "Oh, that. It's another one of the reasons why Mac was looking into that stupid gang. Why he…." Joe cleared his throat. "Adam lives on disability checks, and stupid gang kids--the lowest of the low ranks--were stealing the mail, harassing him. It got pretty bad. They were doing it to a whole bunch of people in the area. Just plain mean, evil, thievery." Joe's jaw clenched and Duncan knew why Adam had asked that his mail be rerouted to Joe's. No punk in his right mind would want to deal with the fury that he saw seething in Joe's face. "I let him. He comes by twice a week to pick it up. It's good. This way I know he's still alive." The fury burned out of Joe's eyes. "I knew him before the accident, you know. Did he tell you about that?"

"The accident? Yes."

"Yeah." Joe smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Fell in love with one of my waitresses. Just the most beautiful thing you ever watched happen, those two. Alexa's father had been dead for a long time, so I gave her away at the wedding."

"Adam said she became ill," Duncan gently probed.

Joe's smile faded, replaced by a look of resigned sorrow. "They hadn't been married very long and she did get sick. Something incurable, and it broke his heart when she died. The rest of him broke a few months later in the accident." Joe sighed. "It's no good dredging up that stuff. Just makes a man want to spit at the universe."

Duncan sighed, and they both turned at the sound of someone knocking on the door. "Huh," Duncan said, and stood to answer the knock.

"Duncan--" Joe warned, standing up himself, legs braced wide, and hands flat on the table. His gaze focused on the door.

Duncan waved him down. Through the glass windows on either side of the door he could see that it was just a kid. Actually, it was the kid from yesterday--the one in the pizza parlor. The kid was shuffling form foot to foot, his hands in his pockets, and looking like he wanted to run. Curious, Duncan opened the door. "What can I--"

The kid looked at him, dark eyes narrowed with resolution, and without removing his hands from his pockets, he lifted them, and a thunderous noise exploded outside Duncan's head, and he felt like a mule had kicked him in the chest. Somewhere behind him Joe was yelling, and Duncan fell heavily to the floor, crushing his own arm beneath him. He stared up at the teenaged kid, who was almost twitching, breathing so heavily that he wheezed, and then Duncan saw the gun, aimed at him again. Another explosion filled his ears, and there was no more.

  
~~~~~  


It hurt to be alive.

Duncan wheezed and opened his eyes, hurting all through his chest, and his head was pounding as if a bongo player had set up residence inside his cranium. 

"Oh, man. Oh, fuck." 

Duncan coughed a few times, clearing his lungs, and tried to give Joe a friendly smile. He was pretty sure it probably looked more like a leering grimace, though, from the rapidly forming expression on Joe's face. 

Joe stared at him, disbelief etched on his face, and he blew out a breath. "Damn. You look like shit."

Duncan tried to laugh, but it dissolved into more coughing. He stood up, pressing one hand against the no-longer-mortally wounded area. "Yeah, well, I feel worse."

"You weren't joking about that Immortal insanity, were you?"

"No." Duncan caught Joe's gaze then dropped it as he lugged himself back to the kitchen. What he really, really wanted was some coffee. He glanced back at Joe. "What happened after I went down?"

"Crazy kid took off. Just started running. Gun in his hand and everything."

"You weren't hurt?" Duncan was glad to see that the coffee machine was still on. The coffee in the pot looked a little sludgy, but he didn't care much at this point. He poured himself a cup.

"No. I dived for cover as soon as he started shooting, and before I knew it, he was gone. Couldn't have taken more than five seconds for the whole damned thing." Joe cast an appraising glance at Duncan as he finished his cup of coffee. "You do remember that was decaf, right?"

"Oh, hell!" Duncan set the cup down. He collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs. "I saw that kid yesterday. He must have seen me, thought I was Duncan--"

Joe finished the rest. "And came over to finish the job that they started. Not knowing that you're…."

Duncan nodded. "A different Duncan." He stretched his muscles, finally starting to feel wholly alive again. "Might be a contract out on Duncan MacLeod," he said. "Every time I go out there, someone is going to think they need to give it a try."

Joe looked stricken. 

"Maybe I should see about getting to the bottom of this business."

"Maybe," Joe said slowly, "you should." He ran a hand through his hair. "Damn. I don't think Duncan ever learned the boss' name. The head guy, I mean. That list is just a bunch of the underlings, guns-for-hire, and that sort."

"Then we'll find out who it is, and have a little talk with him." Duncan plucked at his sweater. Not too much blood, at least, and it was a dark color, but the hole would have to be mended. "I've been running around in Duncan's place for a month now and no one's bothered me. It was just stupid luck that kid saw me yesterday…." Duncan's head came up and panic bled through his veins and into his heart. 

"What is it?"

"Adam. That fucking kid saw me with _Adam_."

Joe's expression transmuted through shock to anger. He shot a look at his watch. "It's only been maybe ten minutes."

"Where would he be now?" Duncan asked.

Joe shook his head, worry etching along the lines of his face. "I don't know! Home? The bar, maybe? Out?"

Duncan started running towards the door. "Get your car. Check the bar, I'll check his house."

Joe nodded and ran out the front door, banging it behind him. Duncan grabbed the keys from the dish and a minute later was burning rubber down the street, praying that he would be in time.

He saw Joe's car practically fishtail out of the neighborhood, blowing a stop sign and disappearing around a corner. 

Duncan only paid as much heed to the traffic laws as minimally possible to keep from killing anyone, and in less than ten minutes, was parked outside Adam's apartment. He jumped out of the Thunderbird, and banged on Adam's door.

The few seconds it took for Adam to answer were interminable, but when he did, Duncan practically sagged with relief. He pushed Adam back into the apartment, ignoring the frenzied protests, and slammed the door closed and locked it.

Adam, ruffled looking but whole, stared at him with an expression of disappointment and disgust. "So, what now? Gone back to being the crazy man?"

Duncan nearly laughed. "No. God, no." He flipped open his cell phone and dialed Joe. "He's here," he said when the line was answered. "Safe. Might want a word from you, though. Thinks I've gone crazy." He held out the cell phone and after a pause, Adam took it.

"Joe?" Adam's gaze flicked to Duncan. "Yes. Of course." The disagreeable expression faded from his face. "I understand. Thank you. Bye, Joe." He closed the unit and handed the phone back to Duncan, face now inscrutable. "Joe says someone tried to kill you earlier." He reached out a hand, tugging on Duncan's collar, and accidentally brushing along the skin of Duncan's neck. "You've been hurt."

The momentary touch turned Duncan's insides to liquid. "It's no matter," he said, his voice roughened. 

"It's the gang, isn't it?" When Duncan nodded, Adam withdrew his hand. "So what now?"

"You need to lie low for a few days. Keep out of sight until they forget you. I'm their main interest, not you."

"I'm small pickings, is that it?" Adam asked, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Something like that."

"Yes, well. I can't really afford to hide out here all day," Adam said. "I've got to get to work."

"Work?" Duncan stared at him, confused. "I thought you said that…."

"Well, that was true. No one's hired me. It's free-lance. I don't do it, I don't eat." Adam gathered a few things together and shrugged on his coat. "So, may as well get on with it then."

"Let me drive you," Duncan said, "please."

"I can walk just fine." Adam grabbed his walking cane and left, trudging diligently up each step outside his door. 

Duncan locked and pulled the door closed. Following Adam up the steps, Duncan tried again. "Adam, please. Let me help you. Just--"

But Adam had moved off, ignoring him and all his explanations. Duncan sighed and got in the Thunderbird. The speedometer didn't even wiggle at the coasting speed he kept as he followed Adam down the street. Stiffly, awkwardly, Adam walked along. Never fast, or slow, he was steady, and didn't falter. 

It was a longer walk than Duncan expected, past Joe's bar, and into a more affluent section of town. Finally, Adam turned up one tree-lined street and stopped at the building at the very end, where the street ended and a well-maintained lawn began. A single wide sidewalk angled up the lawn to the front of the grey granite-stone building, the wide staircase steps worn smooth along the edges from over a hundred years of people climbing and descending. Two pillars of granite stood sentry at the base of the staircase, each topped with a smooth globe in which shadowy, fuzzy reflections of passers-by moved and vanished. 

Duncan parked and quickly ran up the steps to catch Adam. The main corridor room was open and wide, and it was easy to see how the once-stately mansion had been renovated from dwelling to library. The floors were smooth--a concession to modern abilities--and all the walls were covered by wooden book stacks, the spines of the books at attention, and waiting for a curious hand.

Duncan found Adam in the back corner of building. One long table took up the middle, with iconic green banker's lamps situated at intervals along the center. Adam's cane rested against the side of the table at the end, within easy reach, while Adam bent over one of the over-large, over-stuffed dictionaries that are always found on pedestals within libraries. Adam spared a quick look for him, his expression unreadable, and then engrossed himself in flipping pages in the dictionary. 

Duncan grabbed a book off a shelf, sat down in a chair on the other side of the table, and waited. 

Adam spent another ten minutes leafing through the dictionary, running his finger down the pages and often flipping back and forth from front to back. When done, he grabbed his cane, and set off out of the room.

Duncan dropped the book he hadn't been reading, and followed him. Adam wound his way to another room and selected three books off a shelf, almost without looking, as if he knew these books by heart. Duncan took a step backwards, turning towards the room, and settled back in his chair. Adam returned a moment later, books in hand, and sat down to leaf through them while furiously making notes on a scratch piece of paper.

Duncan tried to raise his head to view the paper, to see what was being written, but the angle was wrong and all he could see were the grayish marks of writing, not the actual words. His movement must have caught Adam's attention because suddenly Adam was staring at him, the corners of his mouth turning down in a strange not-quite smile and Duncan's mouth went dry.

Adam slowly pushed his papers across the expanse of table and Duncan caught them with the pads of his fingers, drawing them closer. He had to break eye contact to look down at the papers. Scribbles. Nothing but random words across a page. Doodles. He looked more closely. Strangely symmetrical doodled words. 

He pushed the papers back towards Adam, then got up and changed to the chair directly across from where Adam was sitting. Adam watched him with a guarded look, his curled hand hidden from view, and his good one tapping with the eraser end of a pencil a staccato on the table-top.

"Impressive," Duncan said as he sat down, keeping his voice low. 

Adam shrugged, but it was the casual shrug that Duncan knew so well from another lifetime. His words meant a lot; Adam just wasn't willing to admit it. Duncan smiled--he'd already had years to learn the secret meanings of quirked eyebrows and lowered lashes. A simple shrug was easy to translate.

"So this is your free-lance work?" he asked.

Adam nodded guardedly. "Yes. I usually do four or five a week and send them in to the Seacouver Sun or the Ledger. If I'm lucky they'll pick one. Usually I get one in every other week or so, for each newspaper. It adds up." He pointed to the papers. "I send in word jumbles, scrambles, any kind of word puzzle they run."

"I bet you're good at it." Duncan made a show of looking at his watch. "It's way past lunchtime, though. Does the wordsmith ever eat?"

"On rare occasions," Adam replied, "I do. Man can not live on knowledge alone."

"Come on, then. I'll drive."

Lunch went too quickly, as far as Duncan was concerned. Adam seemed comfortable, chatting easily about his construction of cross-word puzzles, the growing interest lately in themed-puzzles, which added another layer of construction. As he spoke, his eyes gleamed with raw enthusiasm, and he leaned forward, intent on his point. 

Duncan listened, nodding, and smiling, engaging Adam as much as he dared, and trying desperately not to venture off into difficult territory. Landmines abounded, and he had to speak carefully to avoid plunging the conversation into dangerous subject matter.

Soon--too soon--the lunch was over, and they drove back to the library. Adam went back to pouring over atlases and books about the history of sports, and Duncan contented himself with browsing the stacks. He tried to keep from humming, although a song played in his heart, as he thumbed through the section on physics. He wondered how difficult it was to take a book out. He hefted the volume from the shelf, considering the weight of it. It would make for a good background in the issue of his getting back to his own home. 

Duncan looked up, and there was Adam, smiling at him. He smiled back, and then sought out the help desk to begin his library patronage.

  
~~~~~  


Later that month, after the sun had set, and inky darkness controlled the depth of the world, Duncan coasted through the streets in his Thunderbird. Copies of the two lists were tucked inside his coat pocket, and were like to burn a hole straight through the fabric if Duncan thought about them any more often.

He made a quick turn and pulled up short to park, turning the headlights off and watching the scene in front of him wash away as the lights faded away.

His allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then approached the building. This was the fifth one he'd visited this week, working his way through the names on the list--the bad list, as he'd begun to think of it--and he had no doubt that things would go along the same lines as before.

Which they did.

Entering the building caused a reaction of attack by the occupants, guns and knives, fists and brass knuckles, all arced towards him with deadly intent. Duncan reacted, dropping down to the ground and kicking out, up-ending two of them with one swipe of his leg. As they went down, he back-elbowed one of them in the chest. The other he kicked in the knee-cap, and felt a satisfying crunch. Both of them collapsed, coughing and gagging, and crying out. They'd stay down for the remainder. Duncan bounced back to his toes, and punched out, hard, taking down two more guys. The last guy stared at him, fists clenched in the air, but he was shaking so hard that Duncan could hear his teeth actually chatter. 

He grinned at him, baring teeth.

"Now," he said, and directed his comments to everyone in the room, on the floor and still standing. "I didn't come here for a social event. I want to know who the Boss is." His gaze drifted over the human wreckage; they were all barely past childhood and into adulthood. 

"We don't know, mister," the one still standing said, and his voice was that of pleading innocence.

"Shut up, Raf!" A young man on the floor practically growled as he clutched at his knee, his face gone near-white with pain, and streaked red in anger. "Shut the fuck up." He glared at Duncan, his expression one of fury and hate. "Go fuck yourself, asshole." He spit at Duncan.

Duncan looked down at the glob of filmy white goop that marred the toe of his boot. Then he looked to the young man, keeping his face placid. These angry kids expected anger in return, calmness unsettled them--well, having the crap kicked out of them unsettled them--the calmness was a mind trick. Too much silence and they felt the need to fill it. He moved forward a little, staring serenely down at the young man on the floor, and imagined kicking his face in. He was pretty sure his imagination showed up well on his face, because the kid on the ground scrambled back, still clutching his knee and wincing in pain and desperation as he struggled to get away. To his side, the other kid's pleading turned into desperate begging.

"I swear, mister! We don't know! We don't know!" 

"Well, I suggest you find out, then," Duncan said, his voice a pleasant mix of control and dark promise. "Because I'm going to be back to ask the question again." He stepped over the sprawled bodies, but paused at the door, turning back to them, allowing them to see the hardness and utter determination in his eyes, on his face. "Next time, I won't be so nice about it." He left them behind, the door closing and blocking out their moans of pain.

He got into his Thunderbird, turned on his headlights, illuminating the world again, one meter at a time, and left the carnage behind. He glanced at his watch. It was getting late.

He made a turn and headed back to the edge of the district, pulling up outside the apartment where Adam lived. He hit the horn twice, and waited patiently for Adam to ascend the steps and get in the car.

Duncan flashed him a warm smile, and started driving. "How was the library today?" he asked.

"A little lonely, actually." Adam tilted his head, his eyes dark in the night, reflecting the pinpoints of light from oncoming traffic. From his inscrutable expression, it was hard to read what he might be thinking, impossible to tell what odd connections had been made in his head. "It was hard to concentrate."

"Oh?" 

"Yeah. Strange, isn't it?" he whispered. "Getting used to things." Adam sunk down in his seat, quiet in a way too darkly reminiscent of Methos. Duncan had always thought the utter stillness, the capacity for inner inspection, had developed from years of necessity and solitude, and growth through changing and turbulent times. But it seemed it was an intrinsic characteristic of Methos, or Adam. "How easily you can grow accustomed to something. Attached. And never realize it until it is gone." A faint smile flashed and was gone. "I made an entire cross word today with misspelled words."

Amused, Duncan chuckled for a moment, then sobered. "I missed being there, too," Duncan apologized. He'd grown used to spending his days at the library, himself. It was a balm-like environment on his frayed nerves. 

"I know." Adam turned to look out the window, and all Duncan could see was the glassy reflection, insubstantial and mirage-like. "And it shouldn't have mattered anyway."

"We don't have to do this." Duncan tried to keep his voice neutral, but it carried the grimness he felt inside along with his words. Perhaps he had allowed himself to become too close to Adam, too attached. Methos, Adam. Everything swam together in his head. The same, and yet completely different. He loved one, desperately missed one and yet…. 

"I know." Adam's reflection in the transparent window glass closed his eyes. "But I'm hungry, so we might as well." And the subject was dropped.

Duncan drove on in silence. He had tried to stay away--but a day alone had caused him to go running back to Adam. He just wanted to…to watch him, be in the same room with him. Adam wasn't Methos. That vast depth of years wasn't there, no horrible history threatened to jump out at them, no monsters of the past could be dredged up, and certainly that constant frisson of knowing you were born to be enemies to the death was absent. Duncan knew he should have followed Joe's advice and left well enough alone--Adam would have gone on just fine without him--but Duncan's loss gnawed at him. His whole world ripped from him, and here was a little solace, a little way to fool himself, and…even though Adam wasn't Methos, there was a central core that existed, that was the same between them.

"You're thinking very hard," Adam commented.

"You think so?" Duncan asked.

"I know so." Adam laughed. "Whenever you start your deep thoughts, there's a little crease between your eyebrows that turns into a V."

Duncan's fingers flew to his forehead, and Adam laughed again. Duncan laughed with him, and they rode in easy silence the rest of the way to the restaurant.

"Looks like a nice place," Adam commented as he exited the Thunderbird. Duncan lounged against the car as he waited, alert for any commotion, and remembering that first trip home from the library. Even since that first time when Adam had acquiesced to riding in the car, he'd made it abundantly clear that he was perfectly capable of getting in and out on his own. Duncan could just damn well hold his horses.

"It should be. It came highly recommended." Duncan allowed Adam to precede him. He scanned the dark area again, but didn't relax until they were into the restaurant and seated. A half-dozen dinners, Duncan thought, and even now he still felt vaguely anxious with Adam sitting across from him. 

As usual, everything went smoothly. Conversation was benign, and friendly, the food was magnificent, and dinner once again ended all-too quickly for Duncan's tastes. Perhaps it was because he knew that upon leaving the warm circle of Adam's attention, that his duties would once again fall into deciphering a way home from the confusion of mathematics and science or else he would delve into the tainted underbelly of the world. 

He much preferred it here, with Adam licking his sorbet spoon, a thoughtful look upon his face as they debated the merits of this and that, or that and the other thing.

Duncan felt a strange smile spread across his face, and Adam paused from his dessert to stare at him, and await developments. "What deep thoughts are you thinking now?" he asked softly.

"I was just wondering why…why you always agree to come out with me."

"Other than it's better not to make the crazy man angry?" Adam grinned wickedly, but then the wickedness vanished, leaving only a sad melancholy. "It's been a long time since I've just had a friend." He shrugged, but the dismissive gesture did nothing to hide the expressive emotions on his face. "I know you think I look like your long-lost friend, and that's why you…." Adam blinked and grabbed his glass of water, taking a long drink. "But I like it all the same." He paused. "You've got a lot of passion for life, and it’s a good reminder for me. I can't try to hide away, only going between home and library." He flashed a grin. "I started working on a very complicated puzzle today. After the misspelled one," he clarified with a self-effacing smirk, "And when I get that one done, it's going to be me doing the treating out to dinner."

"Deal," Duncan agreed, and they both bent to finish their desserts.

On the way out to the car, Adam stumbled and Duncan caught his arm. "It isn't a crime," he murmured into Adam's ear, "to accept a _little_ help from a friend." He felt the tension leave Adam's body, and Adam balanced himself again. 

"Thank you," he whispered, one hand still clutching at Duncan's arm, and he looked up into Duncan's face. 

Duncan looked down, gut slowly warming as the world tilted, and--

Something hit him on his back. He went down under the pain of it, sudden and bright, causing starbursts in his eyes until he couldn't see, could only hear. "Adam…." He tried to yell, but another blow rained down upon him, the impact hard, and he heard things crunch a second before he felt the excruciating pain radiate from everywhere. Fighting the blinding pain, he tried to crawl.

He could hear Adam yelling, hear more things crunching, hitting, slapping.

Fear clutched at him, but no other blow came, and his eyesight cleared. Adam was holding his own. That hard walking stick was swinging through the air as if Adam had been trained with it. Two thugs were limping, and a third was on the ground, blood gushing from his nose and mouth. But they were closing in, and it was only a matter of time, no matter how expertly Adam wielded his weapon, he was still at a disadvantage. He couldn't dare move without the cane to help balance him, and one walking stick was little match for the lead pipes and chains that the thugs held.

Duncan struggled to get to his feet, setting off another starburst of pain. Things ground inside him, having not yet healed, and his breath was gone.

One of the goons noticed and changed direction, swinging his pipe with glee, and Duncan barely managed to avoid the first blow. The second one glanced along his rib cage, and he went down again. Things were mending, knitting themselves together in his body, but he needed another minute, and a chance to get away from being newly hurt. He braced for the pain and willed his body to perform, lashing out with a whipcord kick that took down his opponent. 

Yet still another thug's shadow fell over him and Duncan looked up to see the man holding a pocket-style knife, light glinting off the edge of it like in a B horror-movie. He readied himself, expecting the lunge, and prepared to avoid the blow and redirect as necessary.

But Adam had seen, and with a strangled and desperate "No!" he lunged, thrashing his walking stick at the attacker with the knife and catching him soundly on the shoulder, drawing his attention. With a hiss, the man turned and stabbed, even as Duncan was already moving. He broke the man's arm, and dislocated his shoulder. Someone hit him across the back again with a pipe, and Duncan dropped with the blow, moving with the impact, and rolling sideways. He kicked out, and swept the man's feet from under him. Duncan stunned him with a blow to the chest, and took the lead pipe away by breaking the man's wrist, twisting it until he felt tendons snap as well as bones.

He rose up again, blood splashed and dirty, clothes torn, and smiled at the screams of the men at his feet. He readied himself for the rest. 

The rest promptly took off into the night.

Duncan watched as they were swallowed up into the night, then memory rushed in, and he quickly knelt. Adam was gasping and shaking, and there was a soft, bloodied spot in his abdomen. "Adam?" he asked, but received no reply, and everything in him spiraled down a dark pathway. "Help!" he yelled, lungs aching, voice scratching at the upper limit of volume. "Someone! Help!" And then he realized that there were people standing around him, clinging to one another, dressed up for the evening, in suits with silk handkerchiefs poking out of the breast pockets, and women in gauzy dresses and furs, all staring at the spectacle before them, shock and grief etched on their faces. "Help, please!" he pleaded. "Call an ambulance," he begged them.

One man came forward and bent down. A phone was in his hand. "They're coming," he promised.

From somewhere far away, the sound of sirens came closer.

  
~~~~~  


"Can you go over that once more?"

Duncan ignored the voice, and continued to stare down the hallway, willing a nurse, or a doctor, or anybody, to come down it. If only they would come.

"Mr. MacLeod?" A hand gently touched his shoulder and Duncan finally tore his attention from the hallway. "They'll come when they come," the Detective said softly. "What you can do to help right now, is talk to me. Help me catch the rest of them that did this."

Duncan gave him a stiff nod, but telling about the incident again was the last thing on his mind. "What else is there to say?" he asked. He stared bleakly at the Detective, a tall man in his early forties, with just a touch of grey at his temples that served to make him seem friendlier, somehow, as if he were an older, kindly Uncle. But his eyes were sharp, and although the potential for friendliness existed in them, they were nonetheless watchful. "Detective Burke, everything I know, I've already said."

"You never know, sometimes going through it again can help trigger a memory, recall to mind some small detail." Burke hesitated, then spoke in a low voice. "Mr. MacLeod, I've been working on the case against this gang for a long time now. They frighten everyone, they hurt people. I've seen them stuff people into the trunks of cars and keep them there for days on end. These people intimidate and harass. They break fingers, and throw bricks through store fronts. I want to stop them. Catch them so they don't hurt anyone else."

Duncan looked down the long hallway again. The harsh lights gleamed against the floor, the walls. Hardly a splash of color could be seen along its empty lines. Duncan stared down the hallway and began telling the story again. "We came out of the restaurant…."

As he finished the story, recounting how he'd refused treatment, and was now waiting to hear about Adam--waiting, and waiting--Joe came through the doors. He walked swiftly, breaking into a run for a stride, then calming down to a fast walk again, until he stood breathless in front of Duncan.

"What's happened?" he asked. "I got your message--" He noticed the Detective and gave him a perfunctory nod before focusing his attention on Duncan again. "You said Adam'd been hurt."

"Sit down, Joe." Duncan grabbed one wrist and pulled his friend down into a chair. Face to face, they stared at each other for a moment. "We were attacked coming out of the restaurant. Pipes, knives. Five of them, I think. Adam was stabbed. He's in surgery now."

"Stabbed?" Horror crept into Joe's face. "Where? How bad? When will we know anything?"

Duncan placed a hand on his own abdomen, showing the area, and Joe paled. Too many important organs were within, all vulnerable to nicks, stabs, cuts. "I don't know how bad. He…he was unconscious. They didn't say anything when he went in. I…I couldn't go in with him."

Joe nodded, but it was a brusque nod that acknowledged the limitations, and dangers of life. "So, we're waiting?"

"Yeah." Duncan looked down the hallway again. "Waiting."

Movement behind him caught his attention and he glanced back to see Detective Burke pulling his coat on. The Detective gave him a small smile. "Well, thank you, Mr. MacLeod. I'll be back in a little while, I've just got some work to do for right now." He looked to Joe. "If you wouldn't mind, perhaps we could just chat a little then?"

"Of course, Detective," Joe said, but his attention only flicked to the Detective for a moment.

Duncan didn't notice when the Detective actually left. He admired the tough work ethic of the man, trying so hard to take down an entity that existed as an infection, destroying all it touched. But he didn’t need the Detective. He had his own plans to excise the festered core. He clenched a fist.

"What happened?" Joe asked in a soft voice. Neither of them stopped watching the hallway. 

"He stumbled," Duncan said. "And I caught him. It was all the opportunity they needed. They attacked me first. I went down. They attacked Adam, and all I could do was listen until I healed enough to get up again." Duncan cracked a grin. "He was fending them off just fine with his cane."

"Heh," Joe said, a smile hovering. "He wields it like he means business."

"He did indeed. One of them saw me get up and came at me with a knife. Adam saw it and gave him a whack with the cane. So the guy turned and…and…Adam went down. I don't know exactly what happened then," Duncan's voice dropped into a lower register, saturated with assurance on this point, "but I hurt them back." He waited for Joe's small nod of understanding. "The rest ran off. And there were people there, Joe. Watching the whole thing."

Joe grunted. "Good thing, I bet. Witnesses to the fact that you were attacked first. Given your obvious state of health."

Duncan winced. "I'd be dead if I were mortal, Joe."

"Yeah. Well, Adam's mortal."

"I know," Duncan said darkly. "Believe me, I know it better than you."

"Well, I've got some information that you'll be very interested in." Joe stood up and walked over to the complimentary coffee stand. The coffee looked like ancient river-bed sludge darkened with molasses, but it still poured in a liquid form. 

"What?" 

Joe poured two cups. "The reason I didn't get your phone call. I was in a little meeting." He looked for cream, sugar, powdered non-fat, non-dairy packets of something, but there was nothing left to dilute the sludge with. "I finally figured out who was dipping into the till." He handed the cup to Duncan, who watched him with solemnity. "Lenny. He'd been taking a few dollars here, a few dollars there. Selling stock and pocketing the customers' payments, never ringing things up. The difficult thing," Joe said, "was that nobody seemed to have any extra money. No flashy jewelry, no cars, no motorcycles, no electronics. So, if someone was taking the money, they were damn good at hiding it. If they were keeping the money." He handed Duncan the coffee.

"What are you saying, Joe?" Duncan frowned. He sniffed the coffee, which smelled of burnt mud, and threw the cup out. "Do you think we could table this for a little later?" He'd rather not hear about the petty stealing from Joe's cash register right at the moment. His mind and heart were elsewhere, in some unknown room, and he was waiting to see whether he'd get them back in one piece or not.

"You'll want to hear this," he said, taking a deep breath. "I knew it had to be Lenny, I'd counted the damn drawer every night for two weeks solid to make sure. So we had a little talk. He was giving the money away, Mac. Paying off the protection debt on my bar."

"What?" Duncan said angrily, standing up in a rush. "What the hell did--"

"Mac, please!" Joe held up his hands. "Yeah. Why I never got bothered much lately. They'd leaned on Lenny, and hard. The guy was practically shaking his fillings out when I talked to him. They threatened him. Me. All the bar patrons. All my regulars. My other employees." His voice became heated as he spoke, each word more punctuated, each word more venomous. "Said they'd burn the bar down with everyone in it. Burn it to the ground." The words hissed out of him, low and furious. "And all this time, I thought I'd beaten 'em. Told them to fuck off. I blew it. I really failed it on this one."

"Joe, you didn't know…."

"I damn well should have!" he spit out. He pointed a finger at Duncan. "You and me. When Adam gets better--" He pointed the finger down the hallway, jabbing it into the air. "When he's okay. You and me. We're going to go and take care of this. This is intolerable. And I won't take it any longer!"

"Calm down, Joe!" Duncan pulled his friend down into a chair. He could feel the man vibrating with emotion. "At least, calm down _here_."

Joe nodded, accepting the wisdom of that, and took a few deep breaths. "We have to stop them, Mac," he whispered urgently, keeping his voice low. 

"We will," Duncan promised darkly. "They're dead, and don't know it yet."

Joe studied his face for a moment, then nodded. "Good." He looked down at his hands, one of which still held the cup of coffee. It was half empty, and sloshed all down the sides. Joe grimaced and threw it in a nearby trash can. "Lenny said he didn't know who the boss was, but he thinks that the headquarters might be down in a building near the docks. When one of the goons was threatening him once, he said something about giving Lenny some cement shoes, and if he were a good boy they'd wave to him every day." Joe's face was stormy. 

"Docks?" Duncan sat back in his chair, suddenly weighted down by a clenching feeling in his gut. "Near where…."

Joe covered his hand with his face, and barely spoke above a whisper. "Near where we found Duncan."

"It makes sense." Duncan tried to reason it out, catching at the threads, trying to tie knots. "Maybe Duncan went down there. He could have learned who the boss was. Gone to see him. Or they picked him up and took him down there. He was too much trouble for them--threatened to expose them, bring the police down on their heads--they just...took care of him. A little risky, leaving him so close to where they headquartered but…then again, if they didn't take him anywhere, they didn't risk being caught."

Joe had slumped over, his head in his hands. "It was right there the whole time," he said. "The whole damned time."

"We couldn't have known, Joe. But we know now." Duncan turned to stare down the hallway. "Just as soon as we can, we'll take care of it." And they continued their vigil.

Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, and morning was turning over into afternoon, when finally someone came down the hallway. Duncan roused himself and gave Joe a shake. They both watched for a moment--they'd been mistaken before, and the doctor had come to see another waiting family member--but this woman stood at the threshold of the waiting area and looked around. 

"Is there a Duncan MacLeod here?" she asked.

Duncan and Joe went to meet here. "I am," he said.

"I'm Dr. Olney," she introduced herself. "I was involved in the surgery."

"How is Adam?" Joe asked. 

She glanced to Joe, then back to Duncan. "I'm sorry. Our policies are set up to protect the patient, so I can't say anything." Her face had a carefully neutral expression. "We tried to contact family--"

"There are none," Joe interrupted. "His parents died a few years back. He's an only child."

"I see," she said, "Well, Adam is awake now, and he's asking for you. He can share what information he'd like. Wing B. Room 314." She inclined her head in a polite gesture, and turned on her heel and walked away.

"Well," Duncan said. "Let's go find him."

They traversed the maze of corridors until they found the B wing, and then smiled at the nurses staffing the desk, and ducked into Room 314.

Adam was propped up in bed, white blankets pulled nearly up to his neck. His skin was ashen, and his eyes seemed all the darker for it, as he watched his visitors enter. An IV was attached to his arm, and machines nearby blinked and whirred. 

Duncan's heart eased at the sight, as awful as it was. "At least they've given you a real room, and not kept you in the ICU," he said.

Adam blinked. "I was over there. For a couple hours. I think." His voice was raspy and hoarse, and he spoke slowly. He closed his eyes, and seemed almost to fall asleep, but then opened them again and focused on Duncan. "I didn't know what had happened to you. I thought maybe…. No one knew. I kept asking…."

Joe sat down in one of the chairs in the room. "We were in the waiting area all night. They wouldn't tell us anything. Believe me, the reception desk workers and I are going to be exchanging Christmas cards next year." He grinned, and reached out to put his hand over Adam's. "Good to see you again, buddy."

Duncan mirrored Joe's action, placing one of his hands over Adam's other hand. "Don't worry about anything. Just get better. Joe and I are going to take care of things."

A small flitted across Adam's face. "Good to have friends in low places," he murmured, and closed his eyes again, falling asleep.

Duncan closed his own eyes, feeling the cool hand beneath his own, and felt the pain in his chest ease just a little.

  
~~~~~  


"Thank you, Detective. Good-bye." Joe hung up the phone and turned. "Well, that's that."

"We hope," Duncan said darkly. His instincts were telling him that he should have gone down to the docks and dealt with this Boss himself, but his ingrained sense of justice had won out in the end. He could not be a vigilante, no matter the transgressions against himself, his loved ones. At least, not yet. He would let the police try. Let mortal justice deal with mortal crimes. 

"We could have gone down there…." 

"No," Duncan said. "Let the police deal with it, if they can. That's their job, we should let them do it." That was the other thing that had changed his mind. Joe would have followed him in a heartbeat, and Duncan couldn't fathom taking his friend into danger. He could not stomach another friend being hurt, and Joe was so very mortal.

Joe clenched a fist, then released it. "I know, but it doesn't make it any easier. Hurt mine, and I will strike back. Kill mine, and I will kill yours." His shoulders slumped. "And we can't tell the police about Duncan. There's one murder that they'll never know."

"There are enough other charges, Joe. Enough blood on their hands to put them away for a long time. Duncan's justice will come."

"I hope you're right."

"Come on. Adam's probably waiting." Duncan grinned. "Don't want to keep him too long."

Joe chuckled. "Yeah."

They left Duncan's house, and went straight to the hospital. 

"He's getting a little cranky, being cooped up here." 

"I know. And that's a good thing. Means he's getting well."

They navigated the labyrinth of hospital corridors with ease, having now been up and down the hallways many times, and found Adam's room. Adam was sitting up, finishing his meal, and smiled when they entered. 

"Are you sure you're feeling better?" Joe asked, making a face. "You still ate whatever that was." He nudged a glob of something that was left on the plate.

"I'm getting there," Adam said. "In fact, the Doctors are giving the green light for discharge tomorrow." His eyes found Duncan's. "I can go home."

  
~~~~~  


There was no discussion, and no argument, when Adam left the hospital: he went to recuperate at Duncan's home.

Duncan arranged to have some of Adam's things moved to the house, and took care of the mundane things that accompany such a transfer. 

Adam's injury kept him from walking anything other than a short distance, and he'd been strangely laconic since leaving the hospital. Quietly, he acquiesced to Duncan's request to help him. Upon entering the house, he surveyed the area with a calm demeanor. "Sparse," he said, and stood looking around. 

"I ordered another bed," Duncan said apologetically, "but it hasn't arrived yet. The company promised today, and…."

Adam held up a hand. "It's fine." He moved slowly, going further into the room. "I've never been here before."

"I always wanted to invite you…but I thought that you might see it as…a threat or…." Duncan stumbled over his words, suddenly more awkward than he'd felt in a decade. He stopped speaking when Adam fixed his quiet look upon him. 

"It'll be fine," he said. Then he looked to the staircase. "That, however, is going to be a lot of fun. I may as well attempt rock-climbing."

"I'll have a lift installed." 

"Yes. And we'll need a sauna, also." 

Duncan smirked. Perhaps the quiet mien was at last fading. "We've got all the time we need to get up and down those stairs. Or do you have a hot date waiting?"

Adam moved over to a chair, sitting down achingly slow. "Well, perhaps I do at that." A small smile appeared and vanished. "Or maybe it's time we had a real talk. Something beyond this desperate friendship you seemed compelled to fuel with me." He stared at Duncan, unblinking, and waiting.

Duncan stared back for a moment, evaluating, and decided. "We can talk about anything you like."

"The truth?"

"Of course, the truth."

"What's going on, then? Between us? The truth."

"We're friends," Duncan stated. "That's all. And that's all that has to be."

"It's not all you want."

"What I want isn't available," Duncan said wistfully, thinking of home, and Methos. The initial discussions with the scientist had gone poorly. Everything was mired in theory, there was no practical extension for traveling between worlds--if such worlds existed, the scientist had explained--and it was very doubtful that even with large amounts of money to fund the research, that anything would be accomplished soon. Although the scientist had been eager to reassure him that unknown advances were always just around the corner…given the proper funding.

"What is it you want?"

"I--" Duncan paused. He wanted to go home. Desperately. But he also wanted to stay--as if he truly had any choice in the matter, he thought wryly. All the same, he wanted to remain and take care of Adam--no, he amended, to _care for_ Adam, which was not the same thing at all. He wanted to be with Adam, to be with this version of Methos, who had the same face, but not the same past, nor the same future. This one needed him more than Methos ever did. Methos survived, and he did a damn fine job of it all by himself. They'd come together out of mutual desires, and had a bond between them that existed past love, and past endurance. That bond chained him to Adam as surely as it did to Methos, as they were one and the same, different and yet not. This Adam still had soft areas where Methos' had been worn hard and smooth, but everything that Methos was, existed here in Adam. 

There was no difference in love, because to love one was to love the other. No matter the thin papier-mâché that overlaid the form, the core that existed was the core that he desired, and was drawn to. The resiliency that persisted like a titanium infrastructure, the personality that meshed with his so easily, were the things that called to him, warmed his heart when they were together, and the broken façade was of no importance.

Duncan stared at Adam, and wondered how to ever explain the tumult within his soul, of knowing more surely than breathing that he wanted nothing else than to stay near the hearth that kept him from existing in a world of blanketed snow.

But Adam had not yet covered that distance of frozen ground, and the necessary words would not form, and there was nothing Duncan could grasp upon that made sense outside his head.

"I don't want pity. Or charity," Adam said into the void. "Or because I remind you of your friend and you like to pretend I'm him." Adam studied Duncan's face. "At first I thought you were a crazy man. Because you wouldn't leave me alone. But it was because you wouldn't leave me alone that I found out how much I enjoyed being with you. I don't think I can ever give you what you truly want, though. Whatever it is. But I know that you've ended up giving me what I wanted, and didn't realize I needed." Adam's voice broke a little. "After Alexa died…. I thought I could just go on, that I didn't need anyone or anything. And then the accident happened, and all I wanted was to hide away. So I did. And every day that I hid was another day that the world stopped remembering that I existed. I liked it that way. But it's no way to exist."

"It's about passion? And having the fire?" Duncan asked softly, remembering another discussion at another time when souls were bared, and decisions made.

"Yes," Adam said, nodding. "Exactly."

"Maybe I am a crazy man, then," Duncan whispered, realizing that perhaps Adam had taken those first few dozen steps across the great frozen expanse, and that he really shouldn't have ever been surprised by it. It was what Methos would have done, and so Adam had done it too.

"Well, then, I'll be a little crazy with you." Adam stared at him, and a long moment of silence passed, but it was a moment of understanding, and accepting. "Well, that's that, then." Adam wobbled to his feet. "I think I need a nap. Mind giving me a hand with that cantankerous contraption you called a staircase?"

"Sure. Give me a minute to get the rigging set up." 

"And am I to trust that you know how to make a proper knot?" Adam asked breezily. 

Duncan wiggled his eyebrows. "Oh, I'm the original boy scout. Knots are my specialty."

"Of that, I have little doubt."

The two of them made their way across the room slowly, but steadily. Adam balanced on the bottom step and tilted his head to gaze upwards. "Now, that is some kind of vertigo."

"Just don't look down," Duncan advised. 

As they moved step-by-step, Adam's breathing became labored. They stopped halfway. 

"So, is the staircase half finished, or is there half to go?" Adam asked between gulps of air. 

Duncan grinned and helped Adam up one more step. "Neither. Now we're almost done."

Adam snorted. "Do you always fix things as you want them?"

"Whenever I can."

Adam closed his eyes, although he kept a firm grip on the railing with his good hand. "I thought maybe your luck had run out. When we were leaving the restaurant, and I saw that guy with a _knife_. And you'd already been hit--hit so hard I could see the stars circling around your head. How you were able to get up at all…your cranium must be made of something tougher than mere bone." 

"It all happened very fast, Adam."

"It seemed like slow motion at the time."

"You were very skilled with your cane."

"A desperate man uses what tools are available."

"Ah, modesty."

"Ah, obfuscation."

"Is that one of your cross-word specialty words?"

"If you like. And you're doing it again."

"It's a story for sometime when we're not balancing in the middle of the staircase."

"Then let's get to the top."

They moved slowly again, one step at a time, until the summit was reached. Adam breathed a sigh of relief and continued the extra few feet to the bed, where he lay down, and closed his eyes almost immediately. "Now, about that story," he said after a minute of resting.

Duncan had wandered to his desk, putting right the few things that had been left cluttered on top. "Well," he said, and stood next to the bed, looking down upon his friend. "It's a very, very long story."

"I've got a very, very long time to be on the mend." 

Duncan opened his mouth to reply, the thought of a long convalescence pleasing him, when Adam opened his eyes. Studying Duncan intently, his keen gaze not missing any nuance, he said, "I suppose I am tired after all that rock climbing. Perhaps we should save the story for later. Something to look forward to tonight."

"Later, then," Duncan agreed amiably, and turned to go back to the desk.

"Won't you need to rest up, though, to tell this long and difficult story?" Adam asked bemusedly from behind him.

Duncan turned, one hand slightly raised, unsure of how to respond. Simple teasing or…something else. An offer? A beginning? "I guess a little rest would be good. To keep my story-telling strength up, of course."

"Oh, of course." Adam rolled over to take up half of the bed. "See you later, then." He pillowed his head with one bent arm, and closed his eyes.

Duncan stood there, debating whether the invitation were real or imagined, and then slowly took off his shoes before climbing onto the other side of the bed. He lay down on his side, gazing at the back of Adam's head, and felt not the least bit tired.

Adam turned over again, and gave Duncan a sleepy smile. "You do guess well," he murmured. He received no argument back.

  
~~~~~  


"Hello!" Joe called up into the second floor.

Duncan grumbled, and rolled out of bed, stumbling briefly on the shoes he'd left lying haphazardly on the floor. It was dark, he noticed, so they must have slept the entire afternoon away. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but he must have…and fallen hard, it seemed, if his grogginess was anything to account by. "Who? Joe?"

"Yeah, it's me, Mac. Did I wake you?" He laughed. "Come on down. I brought pizza!"

Adam rolled over in the bed and opened one eye. "Tell him to come up. I don't want any more rock climbing for the day."

"Hold on, Joe. I'm coming." Duncan pulled his shoes on and pushed his hair back before descending the staircase. 

Joe was putting the pizza down on the table. "Half pepperoni, extra garlic on the whole thing. Guaranteed to keep the vampires away." He raised an eyebrow. "Should I start the coffee, buddy?"

Duncan peered at him through bleary eyes. "You're in a very good mood."

"Yeah?" Joe grinned. "I suppose I am. I heard they raided the docks this morning. Caught a whole bunch of bad guys." He held forefinger and thumb together. "Pinched their collars and hauled 'em off to jail. The hoosegow. The pokey. Cell block number nine."

"What? They did? What happened?" Duncan began grabbing plates and napkins, and balanced everything on top of the pizza box with one hand.

"I brought a paper!" Joe crowed. He slapped a rolled up newspaper down on the table. "Front page. Photos."

Duncan picked up the paper and read the front page story, skimming over the words, and briefly glancing at the photos. "This. This is amazing." He looked up. "Come on. Let's get this and the food upstairs."

"Sure, sure. Just let me make some coffee."

Duncan nodded and, still balancing everything, started up the staircase. Adam's dark head peeked over the railing. 

"That smells good."

"Extra garlic and--"

A loud slamming noise followed by the lock splintering, and the front door banging open caught Duncan's attention. "Get back!" he yelled at Adam, and gratefully saw him vanish from the railing. He flung the pizza and items away, noting peripherally that all the plates had smashed, before diving for cover himself.

A spray of bullets riddled the walls.

"That's enough." The voice was familiar, but Duncan couldn't place it. 

"Come on out, Mr. MacLeod. Please. Or I have them start shooting again."

Duncan peered out into the room from behind the couch he'd dived behind, and was astounded to find that he did recognize the voice, and the man that went with it. Slowly he crawled out from behind the couch and stood. "I'm right here."

Jack Fitch scowled at him. He looked exactly as he had the night Duncan had last seen him--the night he'd fought him at the docks, and…possibly lost. Duncan scowled back, matching expression for sour expression. Well, it was payback time. 

"You're the big Boss," Duncan guessed.

"Got it in one." Fitch flicked a hand at his accompanying goon-squad of semi-assault weapons holders. They spread out in the room. "You're a bright guy. How come a bright guy like you decided to get in my business?" Fitch walked the room like he owned it. He saw a lamp balanced on top of a small wooden humidor, and with one swipe of his hand, sent it flying and crashing. "Sent the _fink-cops_ down on me and my whole organization!" 

Duncan stared stonily at him. The loud-mouth didn't really want an answer. He'd come here to bully and frighten, then to kill. Duncan set his jaw. He only needed one moment, just one unguarded moment, and this would all be over.

"I shut you up once, I _thought_." Here Fitch glared at his own underlings. "But no--you must have got away. Not dead. Not dead at all. And then--" Fitch pointed a finger at Duncan, jabbing the air with it to make his point. "Someone sees you in a pizza place! Of all places! Flaunting your escape from us, like we were laughing stocks! And then he comes _here_ and he _shoots_ you--in the head! Or so he says. And still, you aren't _dead_." Fitch paced the room, coming closer, then moving away. He picked up a few things from the end tables, admiring them, and then dropped them from his hand with an insouciant indifference so that they broke upon the floor. "How come you _aren't_ dead, Mr. MacLeod? What stubborn streak do _you_ possess that the rest of us do not?"

Duncan glowered at Fitch, willing him to ease for just a moment. "I'm Immortal," he whispered as Fitch came almost close enough.

"Yeah, well enjoy it while you can, because you're about to be--" Fitch inched closer "--dead." He pulled his own weapon out of a hidden holster, and pointed it point blank at Duncan's face.

There was a soft thunking noise, and then one of his henchmen began to scream.

Duncan didn't look, but Fitch did. Duncan grabbed the wrist with the gun in it, and snapped it, feeling bone grind under his ministration. Howling, Fitch rounded back on him, connecting a solid strike to Duncan's temple and he heard ringing. He ducked another blow, and hit Fitch squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. He looked at the gun left in his hands, disgusted with it, and popped the magazine out, as well as the chambered round. "You make me sick," he told the man, and advanced on him. One of the gunmen started to swing around and Duncan spent a moment to break his arm, take the gun and fling it away. It had given Fitch enough time to stand. He was still fast, faster even than Duncan remembered. A knife glinted in his good hand, and he struck in and under Duncan's defense, catching him in the side, slashing. Duncan grunted in pain, ignored the burning sear down his side, and struck Fitch in the face, across the bridge of the nose. Fitch went down, twitched once, and was still. Duncan gulped a breath of air, hand to his side as the pain faded, and finally saw that all around him, things broken out into chaos. Somewhere in the house, a phone was still ringing, insistent.

One man was down on the ground, stained with a dark liquid, his hands tight to his eyes, clutching and sobbing. The other goon was bloodied, and not down yet, but as Duncan watched, Joe streaked a punch with one fist to the man's body, and brought the other fist smashing up under the man's jaw. The man toppled down, eyes rolling back into his head. Joe stared at him, both fists still up, boxing-style, with raw knuckles. He bounced on his toes, ready for the unconscious man to make another move.

Duncan pushed Joe's arms down gently. "It's done, Joe." 

Joe blinked and turned to survey the damage. "You're going to need a new decorator."

"You don't like the urban-chic look?" Duncan asked, "It's all the rage lately, you know." 

Joe laughed weakly. "Ah, you nutty bachelors." 

Duncan went to grab some rope to tie up their uninvited guests, and called up into the loft. "Adam?"

Adam appeared over the railing. "Still present and accounted for. But your desk is dead, I think. They got it."

Duncan sagged with relief. Bad guys down, good guys all alive. It was as much as he could have asked for. "What the hell did you do?" he asked Joe. The phone stopped ringing.

Joe raised his eyebrows. "Me? Adam did it. Lobbed something straight at the guy's head. Excellent aim. Soon as he flinched, I chucked the coffee at him." Joe looked around and grabbed a plastic handle that was attached to nothing more than a few shards of glass. "You're going to need a new carafe." He chuckled. "Just as well, I think I made decaf again, anyways." The phone started ringing again. "You going to answer that?"

Duncan finished tying up unwanted visitors, and stepped over the wreckage of his living room to reach out for the phone. He picked it up and nearly dropped it. "Yes," he said. "Yes, of course." He blinked. "I'll be right there."

"Well, who was it?" Joe asked as he studied his bruised and bloodied knuckles.

"That was Mother," Duncan said slowly. "She and Dad are at the airport. I'm to come and pick them up. Immediately."

  
~~~~~  


It didn't feel like ten years.

Not ten years at all. 

Maybe half of eternity. Maybe half an afternoon. But certainly not just ten measly, meager years. 

They stood over Adam's grave, and commiserated. It was a cold November day, the ground was hard, but not quite frozen. The leaves were off the trees and lying in heaps, ready to be taken away, although quite a few broke free and ran with the wind, down the lawn, tumbling over each other. 

The funeral had been a week ago, and until yesterday, their lives had been full with visiting family, neighbors, and friends. Then, as all such things must come to an end, the bombardment of visitors had faded, and Duncan had driven his parents to the airport. They hugged him and whispered last minute sympathy and endearments before boarding the plane. They'd never really understood Adam's position in his life, but they'd accepted it with aplomb, and with the sort of urbane grace that Duncan had come to associate with his newfound parents. Oh, that first meeting, he mused, and the warmth of memory suffused him for a moment before he once again remembered the bitter cold of the day.

"It was too soon," Joe lamented. "I suppose the good really do die young."

Duncan nodded, unable to speak. The years had gone by in a flurry of days, and activities, and nights. At the time it had felt like an endless supply, and he had basked in the comfort of just being, of the anchor that Adam had become in the new world he had fallen into. Mundane things shared, everyday tasks completed together, and conversations strung out like holiday lights had been the foundation of his world, and the absence of it now stung like a chill that had brushed through his flesh and into his bones, replacing his marrow.

Joe reached into his pocket and brought out a sharpened pencil and small notebook. He placed them next to the headstone. "For when he needs it. I figure the dead gotta pass the time somehow. Probably cross words are popular."

Duncan smiled a little, amused by the notion. "You're a good friend, Joe."

"Takes one to be one, Mac." Joe pulled his coat tighter around himself as the wind picked up. More leaves escaped from the piles, flinging themselves with wild abandon along with the invisible breeze. 

"I'll miss him," Duncan said, rubbing his thumb along the top of the stone. "I never thought it would happen. Not this soon, anyway."

"He dealt with his injuries everyday, Mac. From the accident, from the attack. Every day was a bonus day. We should all see it that way."

"Your lives are so fragile." Duncan rubbed the stone again, the roughness a reminder of reality against his skin. Adam had ever been amazed by his Immortality, and never begrudged it, but Duncan had. What distinction then, between his brightly burning Adam, and the long-burning Methos…and that crucial difference between the two halves would always render Duncan's heart in two.

"Maybe, Mac," Joe conceded. "They were good years, though. These last ones with you. You really were good for him, you know."

"It wasn't enough."

"It never is." Joe sighed. "For those of us left behind. For Adam? He got to spend the rest of his life with someone he loved, with his best friend in all the world. It's no small thing."

"No," Duncan agreed, "it isn't." But his heart was still empty. He'd been torn away from Methos, away from that love, and deposited here, only to be given Adam. And now Adam was gone. And he was alone in the world, a world that wasn't his own. 

"Remember that day you first got here?" Joe chuckled. "And you saw Adam, and he snuck up on you, and it scared the dickens right out of you?" He laughed harder. "If I'd bet money that day, it'd have been on Adam having nothing to do with you ever. I'd have lost a lot of money."

Duncan chuckled, remembering. "Well, sometimes our hearts know more than we do."

Joe's humor eased, and he turned to Duncan. "What was it, anyway? It couldn't just have been that he looked like your lover from where you come from. Takes more than that."

"It wasn't any one thing, Joe. It just is. Because he crossed my path. Because he smiled at me, once. " Duncan rubbed the top of the stone one last time and stepped away. "There is no reason. Sometimes love chooses us, there is no choice, only that we were chosen."

They sat for a time, quiet, the wind whistling past their ears.

"What now?" Joe finally asked.

"I don't know. I've never known what _here_ is, how I got here. It is nothing like my home, and nothing like what I could have imagined, or made any sense of. Nightmare? Insanity? Another world? Any of them could be true." Duncan rubbed his fingers together. Already the tactile memory of the feel of the stone had faded. "Or perhaps I died, and this is purgatory, and my soul is doomed to wander here alone."

Joe set his jaw and punched Duncan in the shoulder. "Stop that maudlin shit. You think it was a coincidence that you appeared here at the very time that my Duncan _died_? Maybe you were here for a reason. Maybe because our Duncan wasn't supposed to die, maybe he was supposed to be here all along, and he wasn't, so you got called instead. You think _Adam_ regrets that you were here for him?"

"Joe--"

"So a couple of idiot, flim-flam scientists say it's bogus. They don't know shit. The cosmos fucked up--and you'd better damn well call it on it. It got confused, and you need to make it account for the error. Balance the books."

Slowly, Duncan nodded. "Joe, you know, you might be right."

"Of course I'm right!" Joe huffed. "What am I right about?"

"I've got an idea…." Duncan pulled his coat around him, feeling the katana shift as he moved. Always with him. Adam had been mesmerized by it, fascinated, asking again and again for Duncan to explain the strangeness of the world he had once inhabited. But he was absent the true understanding of it, and for that Duncan had been grateful, even though it brought with it an unacceptable trade-off. Duncan had told it all, and shown him the sword, and had spent ten years dancing the katas, practicing for some-when, and someday. "Listen, I need to go try something. If I don't see you later…."

Joe waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah. I'll assume you made it back to wherever." He grinned. "Well, if you don't, come down tonight and meet my new manager. Punk kid, but a good hearted punk kid. You'd like him, I think. Awful taste in fashion though, you should see this hideous green leather jacket he owns. Nauseating."

"I will, Joe, if I can." Duncan took Joe's hand and shook it, holding it in his own for a moment. "Good luck, Joe."

Joe snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Good luck. See you tonight."

Duncan watched Joe leave, then turned back to Adam and his grave. He kissed the tips of his fingers and touched them to Adam's grave. "I'm sorry I won't be here to tend to you, Adam. But I will always remember you, and carry you with me. Wish me luck."

He got in his car, and drove to the docks. 

No one was around. It was too cold for anyone not serious about the sea, and the wind had whipped the water into a white-capped froth that was too dangerous for anything smaller than a tanker today. Duncan found the small area easily, it was imprinted in his mind as if in indelible ink. Not much had changed, the area was a little shabbier, and things a little more worn, but that was all. The wind carried in the good scent of open sea air, dispelling the usual stench of stagnant water welled near shore. 

Duncan stood on the dock area above where it had first begun, and thought of many things. He thought of his strange dream about Fitz, years ago now, and how that dream world had seemed so real. He thought of what Joe had said, that perhaps he had come here to do a job--and without the help of a certain angel this time. "Fitz?" he called into the wind. "Fitz?" His words were carried away, and no one answered. 

Had he been called here for a reason? Or was it all just a mistake? He looked down at the water, frothy with sea foam, and the dark color of ink within an inkwell, fathomless and bottomless, although he knew the bottom was not far away. It wouldn't cost much, if he were wrong. A freezing dip, a little embarrassment, and a quick ride home to take a hot shower in his now lonely, empty house. 

Duncan took a deep breath.

Behind him someone shouted. The docks weren't as deserted as all that, it seemed. "Stop!" a man shouted and there were frantic footsteps, pounding closer.

Duncan dove in anyway. The shock of the cold stole his breath, and it bubbled away in a torrent, and his chest felt like it was being crushed and exploded, and he swallowed water as he sank deeper down and down. His eyes were blind, seeing nothing but dark black-green water, he reached out and grabbed a hold of nothing but thinness, and the insubstantial wash of liquid passed through his fingers. He tried to breathe, swallowed water, but there was naught but pain, and then nothing more.

  
~~~~~  


He came up through the brackish water, and the slimy seaweed scratched at his face and he emerged from utter blindness to utter darkness. He dragged in a breath, and knew only that he was glad to be alive again.

He really hated drowning.

With a strange buzzing in his ears, Duncan swam to the edge of the area, where a breaker wall of rocks had been constructed, and clung to them, getting his bearings. It was night…so had he been dead for that many hours? Joe would let him hear it, for sure.

Duncan crawled up the rocks, getting his balance, and he frowned at the sight before him. In the darkness, he couldn't be sure, but it looked like a man was prowling through the shadows. Now if only this headache-- Duncan stopped. He'd done it. He was back. Somehow, someway, he'd managed it. 

He squinted into the night.

And Jack Fitch was not dead.

Well, Duncan grinned to himself, neither was he. 

Duncan reached for his katana, which was still sheathed within his coat, then discarded the heavily wet coat to the ground. Perhaps it was his job, after all, to rid the world of one particular menace. Duncan stalked forward, more silent than a cat through the night.  
Fitch prowled the dock, looking over the edge of the pier, as if disbelieving that his opponent could vanish into the waters.

"Fitch," Duncan called softly, and the man whirled around. Duncan struck a lightning fast blow, swept up, and cut across Fitch's abdomen again. Still snake-strike fast, Fitch responded with his own blow, straight to Duncan's nose with the hilt of his sword, and Duncan staggered back for a moment. "Nice try. I guess you owed me that one." 

"I'm gonna gut you, first," Fitch warned, his voice a near growl. 

He thrust forward, and Duncan stepped to the side, then whirled and smashed his own hilt into the back of Fitch's head. Fitch fell to his knees, and Duncan finished it with one last movement.

Lights shaped like balls of energy rose through the sky, like the St. Elmo's Fire of lore, and swirled through a kaleidoscope display. Duncan held his sword to the sky, and the Quickening struck with gale force, knocking him over. Waves crashed against the break-walls, pounding the dock and pier, rocking his footing. Everything that ever fueled Fitch channeled through him, as fast as lightning, and twice as charged. Duncan screamed until it stopped, and he dropped to his knees.

He gathered his wits, and using his sword to brace himself, got to his feet. He pushed Fitch's body and head over the edge of the pier and into the water, and watched it sink out of sight. Perhaps his sins dragged him down, thought Duncan. After retrieving his coat, and once again hiding his sword, he stumbled up towards the parking area, feeling better as he moved. 

As he passed by one car, though, he heard a thump. 

He stopped. Listening, he called out, "Is someone there?"

Another thump and a muffled cry for help. Duncan rushed to car. It was locked. He smashed a window with his elbow and opened the door, then reached in to find the trunk release lever. It opened with a pop, and Duncan hurriedly went back around to the back of the car, and stared into the trunk. A man was tied hand to foot, and blindfolded. 

Duncan reached in and pulled off the blindfold. "Detective Burke!" Duncan hastily untied him. "What the hell happened?" Duncan asked when Burke was free, and they were away from the vehicle.

The man rubbed at his wrists. "Do I know you?" he asked with a hoarse voice.

"Um, we met a few years ago," Duncan hedged. "But what happened? Are you all right?"

Burke rubbed his face. "I will be. Have you a cell phone on you?"

Duncan dug into his pockets, but the phone he produced was a melted mass of plastic. "It isn't working at the moment."

"Never mind, there's a payphone at the end of the parking lot." 

Duncan followed the Detective, and waited while he called for back up. "Headquarters," he rasped into the phone, "It's Burke. I need some guys down here at the South End Docks. The Fitch Gang. Yeah. I think the head guy is down here. Yeah, Fitch himself."

Duncan faded into the night, having heard enough. "Hey!" he heard Detective Burke call into the darkness, "Come back!" But he didn't return. His car was parked in the other corner of the lot, and he was glad to reach it, and made sure to leave by the alternate exit, rather than drive by Detective Burke.

He felt almost lightheaded as he pulled into his parking spot and gazed at his building, where the loft lights glowed warmly, a beacon in the night. He could feel the buzz of another Immortal, it rumbled up and down his spine, almost a foreign thing after ten years without. He paused as the door, leaning his forehead against it, fingers itching to push it wide. It should be Methos within. Methos waiting for him, not knowing he was gone for ten years, or knowing that he'd loved and lost, and come home again. 

Too changed within, he might be…and Methos would sense it in an instant. The man had near-unbelievable instincts. And it seemed that everything that had passed had been only for an instant here, in this world, where he knew how things worked, and who people were…and yet, ten years had he aged, added another decade to his tally.

His heart fairly bled with the ripping loss of only not so many days ago, when Adam had closed his eyes for the last time, and Duncan had held his hand…and now, here it all was again. Methos inside, and Adam, and they weren't the same, but forever were always the same. 

Duncan's head spun with his thoughts and he stayed there, against the door and threshold, neither in nor out, longer than he meant to, the buzz beating against the inside of his skull, reminding him that he had returned. At long last come back.

"I was wondering when you'd come home," Methos said, appearing out of the shadows. "And I find you down here, communing with the door." He reached out, hand open. "Duncan?"

Duncan turned to him, and the Presence that he had felt--so strange to feel again, and yet so gratefully accepted--finally faded. "I had an adventure tonight," he said softly.

"I should have guessed." Methos smiled as if he expected nothing less and was waiting to hear every last word. "Well, come inside and tell it then." He started to turn, although his eyes still held on Duncan. "And welcome home. I've missed you."

~fin~


End file.
